


The Root of All Evil Is Love

by Crystia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Slytherin Harry, Time Travel, tomarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3259649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystia/pseuds/Crystia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Riddle is certain that Harry Potter loved him before the potion's fiasco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [ ffnet version available](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10977041/1/)

The dungeons chilled the cauldrons, making them startlingly cold to the touch. An undiscovered leak sent drips echoing off the stone, unnoticed by the students who whispered over the sound.

Tom Riddle pointedly kept his gaze directed toward the front of the classroom, listening to Professor Slughorn drone on about love potions, of all things. He held almost unnaturally still, a sharp contrast to the students fidgeting around him, giggling about crushes or shifting uncomfortably with blushes coloring their cheeks. Behind him, a Slytherin girl quietly boasted about her mother, who had invented a variation of love potion which created false, amorous memories.

Compared to other dalliances of which Tom’s classmates spoke, it was actually an intriguing invention. Taking into account theories of obliviation and legilimancy, Tom thought the description doable but challenging, especially given that few wizards ever fully mastered the ability to manipulate memories. And if editing them proved difficult, creating them remained positively onerous.

How frivolous, to spend all that time and knowledge developing a love potion. If Tom had his way, he would put such talented witches and wizards to much better use.

Thankfully, his lab partner was not among the fidgeting, giggling masses. As the lecture continued, however, Tom grew increasingly wary of the looks the boy kept sending his way. The boy frequently behaved nervously around him, but surely this was too much. His neck prickled at the unwelcome and intrusive gaze.

He’d puzzled over the grudge for weeks; the boy had enrolled in Hogwarts out of the blue, and he’d taken an illogical and immediate dislike to Tom. His face burned red with anger when spoken to, he avoided Tom whenever in the same room, and the boy always watched him with suspicion. Tom treaded carefully around him, but Potter still snapped at him regularly and tensed whenever he appeared-

Oh.

Tom’s eyes widened, the grating mystery of Harry Potter’s odd behavior finally solved, a sudden moment of clarity after weeks of speculation.

A smirk played across his lips, his new discovery amusing him so much that he didn’t even care if Potter saw it.

Tom recalled the blushing, the nervousness, and the spying, and now he reconciled them to these frequent but covert glances in a lecture about love potions. He’d maintained his facade too perfectly to arouse suspicion; of course the boy didn’t suspect. No one ever saw beyond his Head Boy badge, his handsome features, and his suave manners.

The answer was simple: the boy was bent. And he fancied Tom Riddle.

Yes, Tom mused, a schoolboy crush made much more sense than Harry Potter being privy to unattainable knowledge, a sixth sense that warned him of Tom’s false persona.

“Tom, you would know the answer, of course?” Slughorn interrupted, snapping Tom irritatingly out of his speculation. Rapidly thinking back over the man’s last words to recall the question, he easily recalled the answer from a text he’d read a few weeks ago.

“Bloodroot and its extracts kill animals cells, making it useless in most consumable potions except for poisons,” Tom responded mildly. “It can also, however, be used in several healing poultices, Professor.”

“Brilliant,” Slughorn beamed, clapping his hands together. “Perfect answer, Tom. Five points to Slytherin. I want all of you to keep Tom’s words in mind when you start on your potions today, so that you don’t exchange bloodroot for the root of aconite...”

Tom tuned the man out again as he went on with the lecture, his gaze flickering over to study the dark-haired boy next to him. He caught Potter’s eyes, an unsettling green, before the boy turned away with a scowl.

Before, Tom would have interpreted the reaction as distaste, but now he thought the flush of red might be credited to yearning instead of anger, and the scowl to embarrassment instead of irritation.

The boy desired him. Tom had exploited such feelings before, although he questioned how best to do so in this particular situation. He needed more information on the boy in order to know how to use him most productively, but in reality, he knew little about the him for certain. He suspected he must be the illegitimate child of the Potter family, but the boy had suddenly appeared a few weeks into the year—their N.E.W.T.’s year, no less—and spoke little about where he came from.

Tom suspected he was indeed a part of the old House of Potter, because as another member of Slytherin, he must be at least half-blood, if not pureblood. And he suspected illegitimate because Potter’s eyes had positively flashed when Tom had asked him about his parents, back during the early days when he’d been appraising the new student.

Small talk was drab, but it usually did wonders for lessening suspicion and earning trust. Now he realized the reason for Potter’s apparent immunity to his charm; he’d been approaching the situation all wrong, like he’d been facing a rival instead of a boy with a crush.

Come to think of it, he had overheard Potter tell Orion that his middle name was for his father. He must have lied, or else he’d taken the Potter name from his mother, because as far as Tom knew, the House of Potter had no “James”. He must be ashamed of his mudblood sire. Half-blood, then.

“Well then, off to work with you,” Slughorn announced, and the class eagerly started in on the practical portion of the class, chattering about who they’d test the love potion on...hypothetically, no, of course we’re not serious, Professor.

Their textbook included several varieties of love potions, and discreetly glancing across the table, Tom saw Potter choose one of Laverne de Montmorency’s variations. It was unique in that it did not require consumption, instead activating when applied directly to the skin. Since the substance could not be digested, its effects created only a mild obsession while the victim retained much of their personality, much weaker than the typical love potion.

Usually not chosen because the victim could not always be coaxed into...anything and everything the maker wanted, it did, however, last considerably longer than the standard 24-hour dose. It had been known to last for over a week, although it depended largely on the efficiency of the brew, the body mass of the recipient, and the attractiveness of the maker.

With a thoughtful frown, Tom turned to the same page, preparing his cauldron for an identical potion with practiced ease.

The class continued uneventfully, although he did pause to inform Potter that he’d turned his burner on too high. The boy tensed so badly at his voice that he knocked several ingredients to the floor. Tom Riddle narrowed his eyes at the boy’s shyness, wondering if he’d been wrong about Potter’s potential value, if he couldn’t function properly around him. Much of what Tom had in mind in regards to the boy’s serviceability required discretion.

The rest of the class passed in silence, with Tom too busy plotting and Potter too shy. The boy finished the hour with a passable concoction, while his own turned out predictably flawless. Slughorn gushed praises on how he’d never seen a stronger sample of Mollis Caritate.

Tom took the praises with a humble smile and soft thanks, whereas Potter glowered outside of Slughorn’s line of vision, probably thinking enviously about how he could never dream to match or claim someone so perfect and brilliant. Tom had certainly heard girls whispering such things on several occasions. The veracity of the thought entertained him.

Slughorn moved on, but Potter’s foul mood remained. After vialing a sample of his potion, he cleaned his station with jerky motions, nonetheless efficient despite his abruptness. When he caught Tom watching him, he narrowed his eyes and brushed past Tom just a little bit too roughly, stumbling as a result. Reaching out to catch him, he mentally cursed when the boy wrenched out of his grip, careening into Tom’s own cauldron and knocking over its entire contents.

Luckily Slughorn had already seen his exemplary work, and so he would likely receive full credit for the class, but he watched in mild horror as the contents spilled all over Potter. The boy’s eyes widened in shock, and then his features went lax.

“Oh dear, oh dear, you really should be more careful, Mister Potter,” Slughorn fretted, rushing back over while the rest of the students gawked. “What a shame, it was as brilliant a creation as always, Tom. I’ll still give you full credit, of course...”

Potter didn’t so much as glance at the professor, his eyes completely glued on Tom, his lips parted in a slight gape. Tom watched him warily, before his eyes flickered over to the professor and back.

“You have nice eyes,” Potter said suddenly, still gazing at him intently. “They’re so much nicer when they’re not red.”

Tom blinked at the unfathomable statement, which received a few giggles and whispers at Potter’s abruptly obvious predicament, accompanied by a softer murmur wondering what glamours he might have seen Tom use. They thought he’d look mysterious with red eyes; he scoffed. He’d never magicked his eyes red, but he almost preferred those whispers to the ones that speculated whether or not Potter had seen him cry.

He felt his rage building, a simmering, wrathful hate that built the more he considered the implications of Potter’s mistake.

“Oh dear,” Slughorn said again worriedly, catching up with the situation and wringing his hands, before continuing reassuringly. “I suppose I’ll have to make the antidote. It’ll take a few hours...”

“I’m afraid, Professor,” Tom spoke reluctantly and with a sense of dread. For once his own genius had not worked to his advantage. “That I replaced the betony with olibanum, to strengthen the solution. You see, I didn’t think it would actually be used, sir, so I saw no harm in it, but-”

“It would react terribly with the asphodel in the antidote,” Slughorn concluded in defeat, deflating. He frowned at Potter with consideration. “With those side-effects, it might be kinder to let the potion wear off on its own.”

“I do apologize, Professor, I never thought-” Tom added hastily, inflicting his voice with proper regret. Internally he cursed Potter’s stupidity and inability to control himself due to his imbecilic, lustful, petty desires.

“No, no, Tom, it was a brilliant alteration, I just don’t think the headmaster would appreciate it if I tried out new antidotes on a student when the love potion itself is relatively harmless...”

“I don’t mind, as long as I can stay with Tom,” Potter spoke up suddenly.

Tom resisted the urge to scowl, because he did not want to endure his company for an entire week. Slipping away to the Chamber, exploring the school, and practicing his dark magic all required privacy. If the boy clung to him, he couldn’t even study for the creation of his horcrux.

Before the boy had disrupted his plans, he’d believed he could create his first horcrux by the end of the year, using the death of the mudblood that he’d killed with the basilisk, or perhaps the murder of his father and grandparents. He still deliberated which had more meaning; his first kill, or the death of his good-for-nothing muggle relatives. Perhaps the girl would be better, since he thought his father should only wish to be used for such a noble cause as his immortality.

Dismissing the boy remained an impracticality, however, what with all of the witnesses in the room. He had an image to maintain. His classmates, or at least the Ravenclaws, expected him to treat Potter with patience and compassion. Slughorn expected the same.

“It’s all right, Professor,” Tom said soothingly. “I was the one who startled him, after all. I’ll make sure he doesn’t embarrass himself too terribly. This way he can even attend classes.”

“Of course,” Slughorn exclaimed happily. “I should have known you’d handle the situation so well. I suppose if it had to happen to anybody, Mr. Potter was lucky that he spilled your potion and not anyone else’s. You’ll take good care of him, and I can rest easy,” Slughorn leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. “Knowing that you’d never take advantage of the poor boy. I’m sure it’ll be a fantastic story to tell, after which we can all have a good laugh.”

Slughorn shook his head at that, waddling back to the front of the room with a chuckle. The other students finished packing up their bags, running off to gossip about the excitement, and Tom clenched his teeth.

“Can I carry your bag for you, Tom?” Potter broke through his thoughts, and Tom turned to see green eyes looking up at him hopefully through the rims of those ridiculous glasses.

“I can manage, thank you, Potter,” Tom said stiffly, the venom in his voice nearly undetectable. The boy certainly didn’t notice. They finished packing their supplies, and Tom slung his bag over his shoulder with a bit too much force. Turning around and taking a few long strides, he didn’t wait before heading out of the room, but Potter followed quickly on his heels.

Silence, and then-

“Can we have lunch together, Tom?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ship these two so hard it's not even funny...but I have no confidence whatsoever writing the pairing myself. Any feedback you might have would be considered immensely helpful! ^.^;


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: [ FANART ](http://ponnukakku.deviantart.com/art/Chocolate-frogs-596628188) BY THE LOVELY [ ponnu ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ponnu/pseuds/ponnu)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ohmygoddd Tom's sneer still makes me laugh every time. XD

Tom supposed he should be grateful for small mercies, since the boy would eventually return to normal. Potter currently infuriated him, but at least he’d never clung to him before the potion. The clumsiness from before was much more tolerable than this new, incessant chattering, or it would have been, had his clumsiness not landed them in this mess in the first place.

"What's your favorite food, Tom?" Potter asked, despite having been refused answers for his last dozen questions.

Even with his golden boy status, Tom didn't need to maintain the patience of a _saint_ , and he'd started ignoring the constant barrage. No one would think him unusually cruel, since they assumed Potter's new infatuation to be completely without basis. When the whole disaster ended, the boy wouldn't blame Tom for dismissing his questions; he would feel too embarrassed for asking them in the first place.

It grew worse as the day went on. "Do you want a chocolate frog, Tom?" Potter asked in Transfiguration. Professor Dumbledore watched them with twinkling eyes, and Tom wanted to gouge them out with his wand.

[ ](http://ponnukakku.deviantart.com/art/Chocolate-frogs-596628188)

"Is there a spell that makes your hair so perfect? Or is it naturally beautiful?" the boy pondered on the way to dinner, showing no signs of tiring. Abraxas snickered, and Tom recalled a particularly painful spell which ripped out all of the hair on one's head, and thought that Malfoy would be exponentially less irritating while screaming in agony and sobbing over the loss of his immaculate blond tresses.

"What's your favorite Quidditch team?" Potter inquired innocently while Tom studied. He was reading about the Blood Boiling Curse, and he felt unusually tempted to practice it, in the middle of the common room or not. The witnesses could be obliviated...

"Can I kiss you, Tom?" Potter asked, in the middle of the library, in front of several underclassman Tom had been tutoring in Arithmancy. His quill snapped. The boy was utterly unaware that he'd been closer to receiving the kiss of death.

And that was the last straw. Tom decided he'd be best off alone, or at least alone with Potter. While the situation humiliated the boy more than him, Tom preferred every bit of his dignity intact, no matter how little sacrificed. He would _not_ become the standing joke.

On the way back to the common room, he pulled Potter aside into an empty classroom. The potion might make the boy obey him, and he cursed himself for not trying this earlier. He still had to be polite, since Potter would remember this later, however embarrassing the boy found it, but no one could blame him for not wanting to put up with a neverending inquisition.

"Look, Potter," Tom said lightly, with his temper carefully in check.

"Harry," Potter interrupted eagerly. His face flushed, and he looked adoringly up at Tom, a smile on his lips as if the very fact of Tom's existence made him absurdly happy.

Tom had never had anyone look at him like that; admiration, yes, greed, yes, hate, plenty of times. He thought it said something about the world, that this expression could only be created artificially.

"Harry," Tom continued unenthusiastically, but he had a larger goal in mind, and he knew better than to waste effort on a small hangup like ugly names and over-familiarity. Potter smiled impossibly wider at the gesture. "I understand you're asking about me because you...care about me," he said, trying to cover up his distaste. "But you must understand that it's because of a potion, and I would prefer it if you acted more...reserved."

"A potion?" Potter asked, confused. "But I don't just care about you, I _love_ you."

Tom held back a disgusted cringe. "Yes, Harry. You spilled a love potion on yourself, and now you think you're in love with me."

Potter shook his head vigorously. "No, I really do love you, you have to believe me-"

"I believe you," Tom cut him off, sensing the upcoming rant. He had to keep the conversation focused, a challenging task due to the drug, but surely not impossible. "If you love me, Harry, could I request that you...limit the questions you ask me, especially in public? I'm afraid they're rather...distracting."

Potter looked crushed. "I'm sorry," the boy said, a desperate edge to his voice. "I'm so sorry! I didn't even realize, but I must have been annoying, you must hate me now-"

"Of course not, Harry," Tom lied smoothly. "It's just something I'm asking you to consider for the future. You've done no harm."

"Right," Potter said, shoulders slouching. Then, hesitantly, he looked up. "Could I ask just one question? And this time you answer?"

Tom considered him. He supposed answering one question about Quidditch or favorites wouldn't hurt, and he could always lie.

"What's your question, then?"

Potter bit his lip, then took a deep breath. Tom wanted to snap at him to get on with it, that Quidditch and favorites were useless, and that such questions only proved his insincerity if those topics struck him as the most significant. It showed love's artificiality and weakness, that those things mattered so much. But he held his tongue, a thousand lies ready to spring forth, and then Potter's chosen question shattered the pattern.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, sounding strangely vulnerable in the empty classroom, his voice bouncing off the walls with echoing sincerity.

"What?" Tom asked, wondering if the potion hadn't adled the boy's brains.

"Why _will_ you do it?" Potter corrected his sentence, as incomprehensible and irritating as the first.

"I don't know what-"

"You're willing to kill," said Harry Potter, his voice soft and unreal and his eyes an unnatural green. Tom froze unwillingly under their scrutiny, stuck by the sudden thought that those eyes matched the color of the curse he'd used on his father.

"You have killed, you will kill...and all for what?" Potter continued, as if he didn't see Tom's growing shock. "Kid's parents will be dead or tossed in Azkaban, and your precious purebloods will die right along with the rest of us. Muggleborns are never going to die out because more are always being born, but purebloods will die out trying to kill them anyway. You'll tear up your soul, your sanity, and all for what?

"You're perfect like this, Tom. You're whole and sane. You could have changed the world without torturing and murdering everybody. So why did you _do_ it?" Potter's voice held no blame, just a sincere desire to know, his eyes still deep with false love. Enchanted and enchanting.

"You're mad," Tom said blankly, taking an unconscious step back. How did Potter know about his plans for horcruxes? He said Tom would tear up his soul...and the muggleborns, and the killing, how did Potter _know_? Perhaps one of those would have been a wild conjecture, fishing for information, but he'd provided too many little things which added together, too many to be a coincidence.

"Mad with love, maybe," came the soft reply, and Potter _smiled_ , and Tom could not understand how the boy could be _smiling_.

"How much do you know?" Tom demanded, gathering his wits at last, asking the question and drawing his wand in the same moment.

His wand dug into Potter's throat before the boy had time to flinch, but he received no response beyond a startled blink. Potter just watched him with wide eyes which contained little to no surprise, completely devoid of fear. The love potion must dull his reactions.

He pressed the wand harder into Potter's throat. "How. Much. Do. You. _Know_?"

And Potter shrugged. Tom snarled in frustration, his golden boy facade forgotten in light of the fact that someone had seen through it and had guessed more than Dumbledore.

"Have you been spying on me? What do you want? _Tell the truth_ ," he commanded, loud and rattled. He fought to keep his composure.

"I want _you_ , Tom," Potter said earnestly. Tom narrowed his eyes, about to curse him, torture him, anything until he _told the truth_ -

But no. Tom wasn't thinking straight. He let out a breath when he realized; such an obvious thing, he should have seen it sooner. He'd need to be careful, of course, but the situation wasn't unsalvageable.

He'd ordered Potter to tell the truth, and he'd inflected his voice with power not unlike that of the Imperius Curse. It was unlikely that Potter could resist its strength, so when Tom had asked what the boy had wanted, he'd likely have _told the truth._

He had answered that he wanted Tom. Perhaps the potion had interfered with his response, but it still made sense that he had wanted Tom before the potion's incident as well. After all, just this morning, hadn't he deduced Potter's infatuation with him?

So Potter had spied on him, and had been remarkably efficient about it, too efficient...but the boy hadn't once approached him with blackmail, hadn't once gone to a teacher, and hadn't once confronted him about the questionable morality of his actions.

Potter _liked_ him, even without the potion, and therefore would protect his secrets, for however long the feeling lasted. He remained furious that someone had found out so much, but he wasn't blind to the potential value. He'd already seen Potter's talents in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and come to think of it, it wouldn't be surprising if it came from knowledge, or at least an affinity, with the the dark arts.

But this was even more useful. Potter had managed to gather a shocking amount of information without Tom noticing, and had only divulged the knowledge to Tom himself, under the additional influence of a love potion. Taking into account the boy's infatuation with him, Tom realized that he could now exploit his impressive investigative skills.

Cautiously, Tom stepped back and lowered his wand, although he didn't put it away.

"You won't tell?" Tom demanded, while an idea formed in the back of his mind.

Potter shook his head rapidly. "Of course not. I would never betray you, Tom."

"No," Tom said slowly. "You won't. Will you prove it for me, Harry?"

"Oh, I'll do anything," Potter said enthusiastically.

Tom knew better than to believe such promises, having heard too many lies from too many lips. He supposed he could almost forgive Potter for this, at least, but never the others. The potion forced the boy to tell such lies, so Potter didn't intend manipulation: the false love had made him stupid and blind. Then again, Tom wouldn't think Potter above manipulation without the potion, and he disliked stupid people almost as much as liars.

Yet circumstances forced him to acknowledge that Potter was not an idiot. He'd knocked over the potion and turned into a nervous fool because of a crush, but the information he'd gathered and the secrecy he'd maintained proved him to be of at least some worth.

Tom would be amiss to disregard such opportunities.

"Will you vow it?" he asked softly.

For the first time, Potter hesitated, and he kept his own face blank. He appeared to be fighting the potion's effects, and Tom could respect that, safe with the knowledge of his own ensured victory.

But as Potter continued to struggle, he wondered if he had a stronger will than he'd first assumed, and he began feeling the first whispers of worry. This was the weakest love potion, after all, no matter how well-brewed. Demanding absolute servitude would cause resistance, but if it was a small sacrifice, something that Potter had intended to do anyway-

"I shan't ask for much," Tom reassured him, keeping any accusation out of his tone, because Potter's guilt would work for him, but his defensiveness would not. "Only a vow to keep my secrets. Do I not deserve an insurance of my privacy? I apologize, it's just, the thought that someone investigated my past, without my permission... Of course I trust you, Harry, but can you imagine the scrutiny of the school if rumours spread, simply because you made one accidental slip?"

Potter's features softened at that, and Tom knew he'd succeeded.

"I don't need to imagine," Potter murmured, and Tom felt a vague, unwilling curiosity at that, but he forced it down. "You have no reason to trust me. I'll do the vow, if it makes you feel better."

"Thank you, Harry," Tom said, his voice filled with feigned gratitude.

He led Potter to the door, a hand on the small of his back, deceptively gentle. He smiled with his teeth, too wide and predatory, but Potter wouldn't see it while influenced by the potion.

"Your devotion is admirable," he whispered into his ear, and he watched Harry Potter shiver as his breath ghosted over his skin.

ooo

It was too late in the evening to perform the necessary ceremony when they arrived back to the dorms, but the following morning, Tom hexed Potter and Abraxas awake, demanding that they accompany him a few hours before breakfast. Abraxas followed stoically, confusion subtly present beneath his impassive gaze, but agreed readily when Tom requested him as their Bonder. But perhaps he only agreed so readily because he knew it wasn't truly a "request".

Tom held out his arm. Potter blinked at it uncertainly, and Tom realized the boy didn't recognize the ceremony. Still, the boy held out his arm anyway. They linked arms, and Abraxas whispered "nox", casting the three teenagers into darkness. The shadows made Potter's eyes look black, flickering green only when the torch light danced across them. The sun had risen, but Tom had led them to an abandoned corridor in the dungeons, no windows to distinguish the time of day. Abraxas placed his wand on top of their clasped hands.

Tom spoke.

"Will you, Harry Potter, keep my secrets, unless my life depends on your action?"

"I will," said Potter, watching with awe at the thin flame that wrapped around their arms. His grip tightened, but he didn't flinch.

"And if you discover any more of my secrets, inadvertently or not, will you share them with me and only me?"

"I will," said Potter.

A second line of flame met the first, intertwining to create a chain. Tom studied their clasped hands, and suddenly disliked this ceremony, in which they acted as each other's counterpart, as though they were _equal_. Potter should be bowing before him, not standing proudly and holding his hand tightly, looking into his eyes with confidence and false _love_.

"And if you disapprove of my intentions, will you agree not to use my secrets against me, even if you tell no one of the specifics?"

"I will," said Potter.

The third coil of flame wound down their arms, Abraxas's breath catching and his wand trembling ever-so-slightly, the three rings of fire combining and brightening so that only one long, fiery snake remained.

The three of them watched, fascinated, until the flames died. Potter kept holding onto his hand despite Tom tugging away, until finally he lost his patience and yanked himself out of the boy's grasp. He pulled out his wand in a fluid motion, and before Abraxas could register the attack, Tom spoke.

" _Obliviate_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahaha. Tom is quite good at anticipating loopholes. How much trouble is Harry in? :D
> 
> ...hahahahahahahahahahaha.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha...? So I log in and check my inbox (after admittedly leaving it for far too long), and suddenly I see a bunch of comments asking why this story ended last chapter!
> 
> I'M SORRY! It was a mistake. I messed up the ao3 settings. It's not done; it shouldn't have been marked as complete. 
> 
> Sorry for the confusion!

Tom returned Abraxas to bed with no complications, the morning still too early for the others to have awoken. He had done well to choose such an unfashionable hour to perform the oath; no consequences would befall him, simply because the scion of Malfoy would have no idea that he should remember anything aside from meaningless dreams.

The day proceeded smoothly from there, Potter more in control of himself than the day prior. He did protest mildly at Malfoy’s treatment, but he disliked the blond, although he wouldn’t answer Tom’s inquiries as to why. Combined with his infatuation his objections lacked enthusiasm. His gaze tended to linger on Tom just a little too long, and he brushed his arm just a little too often, but his behavior certainly improved upon yesterday’s unending questions.

His restraint allowed Tom to study the boy himself rather than simply fend off advances.

Instead of growing bored, however, Tom found himself growing puzzled. He had originally written the boy off after seeing his average grades and illegitimate blood status, but now that the boy followed him around, he couldn’t help but notice Potter’s...oddities.

It was in the way he spoke, his words just a little bit strange, and his mannerisms just a little bit off. He’d make up peculiar words and then dismiss them, like Pigmy Puffs and Whiz-Bangs, and then he’d blink, mildly startled, when someone questioned him. He didn’t know things he should, like the head of the Auror department or the recent werewolf legislation, and he knew absolutely none of the pureblood courtesies and customs.  

Tom did wonder how Potter had managed to survive for so long without absorbing an ounce of pureblood culture, and his placement in Slytherin piqued his curiosity. He wondered how it had gone unnoticed in the house for so long; the boy had arrived over a month ago. He supposed the boy had kept to himself the past few weeks, rarely speaking to his classmates, and although he lacked wizard conventionality, he also couldn’t deny that the boy was extremely polite, in a disgustingly plain, muggle sort of way.

He would have deemed Potter clueless, yet the mysteries didn’t end there. Despite being a transfer student, he soon realized that the boy never, ever got lost in the school.

Tom knew, because he had tried to abandon the boy several times throughout the day, and the boy _always_ found him with astounding speed. It made no sense. It had taken Tom seven years to learn the school’s secrets, it had taken him six to find the chamber, and yet _Potter_ navigated the halls and passageways with more ease than many of the teachers.

“Tom, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to ditch me,” Potter announced reprovingly, this time in a little out-of-the-way window cubby, finding him again regardless of the notice-me-not charm.

Tom didn’t understand _how_ , and things that he didn’t understand, he wanted to hex. His fingers twitched towards his wand. Reflexively, Potter’s hand darted to his own, and then the boy blinked and shook his head as though dazed. Intrigued, Tom watched as his hand fell away.

“I don’t think I could if I tried,” Tom said lightly, covering up genuine aggravation.

The reflexive action towards his wand suggested practical dueling experience. Tom observed the idiot distrustfully, pondering the fact that he’d yet to see the clumsiness Potter had displayed when he knocked over his potion. He’d almost call him _graceful,_ not in the pureblood, aristocratic manner, but his DADA duels lacked any stumbling, and he easily dodged people as he chased after Tom.

He’d credited Potter’s fumbling to his crush, at first, since the idiot had yanked himself out of his grasp, but that didn’t make sense either. The love potion made the boy completely infatuated with him, and yet he’d seen no repeats of the first bout of clumsiness. Now Potter seemed to _want_ to touch him; he postulated that perhaps the love potion had lowered his inhibitions.

It was dinner time, and Tom had gone from trying to discretely lose the new student in the dungeons, to taking every secret passageway and indirect route he could think of to find a moment alone. This failure brought the count up to seven unsuccessful attempts for the day. He was not one to admit defeat, but he began to think—rather sourly—that strategically, he’d lost more time than he gained.

Potter plopped down right next to him, and Tom stiffened. When the boy leaned his head against his shoulder, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he had to resist the urge to shove him off and curse him into oblivion. He disliked being touched, but Potter trapped him against the window, and shoving the boy off would lead to pathetic pleading and heartfelt apologies which he hated even more.

He wanted to study and think, but he’d ended up spending most of his time viciously planning this boy’s demise, and it was only the second day of the infection. Yet he couldn’t dispose of him, not when the boy so obviously attached himself to his side and so many people knew about his predicament.

No matter what he did, Potter seemed to foil him without effort or awareness. Gritting his teeth, he picked up his book again; he’d noticed that Potter held back his questions when he studied, probably still guilty after last night’s encounter.

“ _Cornivus Gaunt,_ ” he hissed the password, deliberately heedless of Potter’s presence, opening the book as it registered the correct code.

The boy couldn’t understand parseltongue, and had sworn to keep his secrets besides. He wanted to test if the boy would dismiss his whisper or recognize it as the noble language of Slytherin. Tom hoped that if so, the whisper would break through the love potion haze and frighten the boy off his shoulder. Tom inched away, but the boy just leaned closer so that their sides completely pressed together, a line of unwanted warmth. Unruly wisps of black hair tickled the side of his face.

“Is that one of your relatives?” Potter asked curiously, adjusting himself so that his head rested more comfortably on his shoulder. Tom froze, the pages he’d been flicking through fluttering to a halt.

“What?” he demanded.

“ _Cornivus Gaunt,_ ” Potter repeated the name with the exact same intonation, and in parseltongue, no less. “It sounds familiar.”

And there were so many things _wrong_ with that sentence. The parseltongue, the knowledge that he was related to the Gaunts—these coincidences had gone long past intriguing and alarming, they were inconceivable, too much—how, how, how—

“Tom?” Potter asked curiously, mildly alarmed, and Tom already had his wand at the boy’s throat, just like last night.

They stared at each other, Potter confused and Tom breathing too fast, alone in a small abandoned window-cubby in an unused corridor of the seventh floor. The setting sun cast them in soft red, almost orange, shadows deadening their features and obscuring their eyes. Although Tom had enjoyed the location before the other student’s arrival, now the space felt too small; even with him now pressed against the opposite wall, their legs tangled together and only a few centimeters separated his wand from Potter’s throat.

“How do you know parseltongue?” Tom demanded, his voice hoarse. He hated this boy; this boy that kept making him lose his composure. “Are we related?”

“We’re not related,” Potter said, blinking in surprise. His hand twitched towards his wand again, but once again he aborted the motion. “And I know parseltongue because...well, because.”

“Because _why_?” he asked sharply, frustrated already. He didn’t sense that the boy was lying, but he didn’t dismiss the idea of shared blood so readily. They did look alike, and even if he’d checked the records thoroughly, Potter had an inherited trait and recognized the name Gaunt.

Potter set his jaw. “I shouldn’t tell you.”

“Why?”

“I-” Potter stuttered, his face contorted in apparent emotional anguish, conflicted but stubborn. Tom realized that the boy’s instincts must be conflicting strongly with the potion’s influence.

Swallowing his disgust, he used his wand to tilt up Potter’s chin and leaned forward. He ran his thumb over the boy’s cheek, still holding his wand loosely with his other fingers, and pressed close enough so that his lips brushed Potter’s ear. He hadn’t truly seduced anyone before, thinking it repulsive to lower himself and touch someone so weak and lustful, but this once he decided that practicality won over his loathing. Intellectual manipulation was preferable, but this boy had too many secrets, and the love potion made this course of action the most effective.

“I-” Potter stammered again, flustered this time. “I- What? You-”

“Don’t you want to tell me, Harry?” Tom whispered, his lips catching on the lobe of Potter’s ear, his breath displacing messy ends of hair. His wand hand trailed down the boy’s neck, a barely-there touch that ended with his thumb pressing gently against his windpipe.

It wasn’t meant as a threat, but Potter violently flinched away at that. Losing his balance, the boy’s eyes widened comically before dropping off the elevated stone and onto the floor, falling out of the fading sunlight in the window’s hollow. His hair looked even more tousled that usual, and his eyes looked particularly black without the light.

A clumsy action, at last: he recognized the pattern now. He was clumsy when cringing away from Tom’s touch.

“I can’t, Tom, please don’t ask,” he said desperately, and scrambled to his feet. He staggered his first few steps, and then turned and darted away, vanishing around the corner within a few seconds, calling an abrupt halt to their interaction.

Tom watched where he disappeared, expression void of emotion, while internally he felt a range of conflicting thoughts. He noted frustration, most obviously, that he did not receive the answers he wanted. Relief also touched the edge of his thoughts, because he had not wanted to take the game farther, for he was clearly superior to Potter and debasing himself in such a hedonistic manner insulted his own intellect. He was perfectly capable of manipulating people with his mind, even without his superficial charm.

But he felt his irritation directed at another reason, as well. Because even though he had no desire to seduce Potter, the fact that he had tried to do so and had then been rejected, despite his target being under the influence of a love potion...He didn’t understand.

He glared down at his book, finally alone after countless attempts of escape, and yet for the entire time he studied, the thought nagged at him that he was only alone because the parasite had _run away_. 

ooo

Tom woke up early the next morning, having successfully avoided Potter since their last encounter. He slipped out a book, idly flipping through the pages, but not truly focusing on the words. What information could possibly be so important that Potter had fought the love potion to keep it from him?

How _dare_ Potter run away from him, when it was _he_ who should have cringed away in disgust? _He_ was the superior one. _He_ was the head boy, impossibly brilliant, and devastatingly handsome. _He_ was the one lowering himself.

 _Or could it be_ , a little traitorous voice whispered from the back of his mind. _That your seduction was so terrible that you couldn’t even charm an infatuated fool?_

Potter wasn’t particularly attractive. The green eyes were enthralling, perhaps, and his features not displeasing—but overall he was unremarkable, scrawny, and his hair absolutely appalling. He should be begging for Tom’s attention.

Seething, he turned the page of his book with too much force, the paper crackling in protest. He reasoned that his failure only proved Potter’s secrets all the more important, and that he should focus on discovering exactly how much the boy knew, along with the reasons behind his knowledge.

Rustling from the bed over caused him to raise his head. The light from the lake glowed a pleasant viridian, filtering through the windows and creating bewitching patterns across the room. Tom blinked when he met Potter’s now-open eyes, suddenly aware of how the lighting emphasized their electrifyingly green, all the more notable without the boy’s glasses distorting them.

“Oh, you’re awake, Tom,” Potter said, blearily rubbing his eyes. He fumbled sleepily for his hideous glasses; cheap wire and obscenely round, too large for his face.

“You’ll wake the other’s,” he said coldly, irritated at the broken peace.

Except Potter misinterpreted the source of his displeasure, and Tom’s former irritation paled in comparison to the downright fury he felt when the boy stumbled out of his bed and plopped into his own.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, his hands whitening as they gripped his book with undue force. Potter’s apparent distress increased.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, and before Tom could move away, Potter pressed his lips briefly against his own, dry and soft and fleeting, and then pulled away just as quickly as he’d leaned in.

And once again, Tom found himself with his wand at Potter’s throat, and a manic thought flitted through his mind that this was becoming _far_ too regular an occurrence.

“What was that?” he demanded. So many questions, and of course, Potter chose to readily answer _this_ one.

“I thought I’d hurt your feelings, when I pulled away last night,” he blathered. “Well, maybe not feelings, because I know you don’t care much about other people. But I thought I might’ve hurt your pride. Is pride a feeling? I didn’t mean to reject you. I want to tell you things, even if you don’t love me back, because I love you. I _can’t_ tell you these things, though, for the same reason. I love you and I don’t want to lose you to V-”

He cut off.

“Lose me to what?” Tom snapped, hating how the boy could say these things, _love love love_ , so easily, so nauseatingly, but he listened anyway, searching for the truth hidden in the drunken ramblings.

But he could find hints in what Potter said only if the boy actually _said_ something.

“Um,” said Potter, unhelpfully. “I’ll bring you up breakfast, okay?”

He scrambled off the bed, ignoring Tom’s hiss of _“Potter!”_ and darting for the door, snagging a robe and slipping it right over his sleeping clothes in his haste. He tripped on the threshold, one more clumsy action on a list with a grand total of three.

Tom glared at the door.

That made thrice that Potter had run away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I welcome all feedback! :) (I try not to beg, but seriously, ANY commentary is WORSHIPPED)
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now... The weather.

It came as no surprise when the taunting started. The other Slytherins observed, not participating in the heckling but not interfering, either. They had learned long ago the consequences of mocking Tom Riddle, and so instead watched eagerly as foolhardy Gryffindors displayed less caution. In this the Slytherins acted more as vultures than snakes, waiting for someone else to make the kill and then gleefully feasting on the remains.

Tom had won over the majority of the student body, of course, but there were always those who resented the most popular and brilliant.

“I must say, Riddle,” MacDougal blustered, conversation’s dropping off to listen to the confrontation. “I heard about how you dosed Potter with a love potion, but I can honestly say that I didn’t believe it until now. I had no idea you were so desperate for a lay.”

A couple of the imbecile’s friends laughed while several of the Slytherins hissed, and even many of the Gryffindor’s outside of his immediate group glared or looked on disapprovingly. Tom kept his face carefully blank, gently setting down his pen before raising his gaze with deliberate calm. He’d need to proceed cautiously; it was just before Transfiguration, and while Dumbledore hadn’t arrived yet, Tom had no delusions as to who the professor would blame if he let the insults get out of hand.

“I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Potter’s predicament was an accident,” he said delicately, setting the crude rumors to rest. He would wait for the right moment to strike, when it was beyond reproach.

“An accident, sure,” MacDougal drawled. “I understand.”

“I’m sure you’re very understanding of accidents,” Potter spoke up unexpectedly, his voice dripping with false sympathy. Tom tensed; a love-stricken statement was the last thing he needed right now- “I’ll bet you said the same thing to your mother after she had you.”

MacDougal spluttered while several students let out surprised bursts of nervous laughter, and Tom’s mouth snapped shut. Normally Potter kept to himself, and somehow that made his abrupt viciousness all the more shocking, especially for the rest of the class who had barely ever heard him speak. While his insult was unrefined, the direct approach might serve Potter well in this particular situation—he faced a Gryffindor, after all—although Tom could never do the same due to his own sophisticated persona.

“You’re not in the right mind, Potter,” MacDougal spat between his teeth, eyes darting around irritably at the jeering audience. “Riddle put you under a spell.”

“And yet even when I’m not in the right mind, I still have more of one than you,” Potter said thoughtfully, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “What’s the matter, MacDougal? Jealous that _you’re_ not the one under Tom’s spell?”

More titters; Potter had now completely won over the audience, even the ones who had been indifferent before. Jeering whispers targeted MacDougal now, and he didn’t take well to the abrupt change in atmosphere.

“You little half-blood whore-” MacDougal snarled.

“Mr. MacDougal,” a sharp voice came from behind him. The laughter cut off as Dumbledore strode towards the front of the room, his eyes not twinkling even a bit. “Five points from Gryffindor for language. I’m disappointed, I expected better of you.”

“Bringing blood into it,” Lucretia Black murmured to her sister from behind him, while Dumbledore started with the lecture. “Terribly gauche.”

“Really, though, I have wondered how a bastard child got into Slytherin,” Walburga sniffed, not at all bothering to keep her voice down. “Is he really half-blood? None of the other girls seem to know, but if MacDougal found out something-”

Tom watched as Potter clenched the quill in his hands, obviously paying more attention to the gossip behind them than the lecture, but his gaze remained steadily on the professor. Tom suddenly remembered Potter’s comment, on how nobody deserved to have their secrets spilled to the school, and wondered if the boy’s composure stemmed from an acclimation to such comments. It presented a good opportunity to fish for information, enough to risk a quiet conversation during a lesson.

“She’s lucky the other girls have such unreliable information,” Tom said softly, so that only Potter could hear. “Lest the rumors that she has Banshee blood be proved.”

Potter snorted, shoulders perceptibly losing some of their tension. “I’d personally been betting on mandrakes. It’d explain why her screeching isn’t fatal. _Yet_.”

Tom paused, mildly surprised that Potter hadn’t started pestering him with questions or proclaiming his love. He supposed the third day had almost passed, so the effects wouldn’t be as intense as the initial reaction. Perhaps Potter had...gotten it out of his system, after their encounter this morning. Careful to keep his voice down, he couldn’t help but resist making one more comment, leaning closer to the other boy to ensure Walburga wouldn’t hear.

“She sent a singing valentine to Lestrange last year,” he confided with mock solemnity. “Her voice was so terrible that he thought it was a howler.”

Potter smothered an all-out laugh at that, resting his chin in his hand so he could muffle it with his palm. His own lips twitched, but he carefully wiped off his smirk, his face the picture of innocence when they earned a disapproving frown from Dumbledore. To his surprise, Potter mimicked the faux innocence almost as quickly.

“Did you have a question, Mr. Potter?” Dumbledore asked, doubtlessly believing that Tom would easily dodge the same question if confronted instead. He was right, of course.

“He didn’t want to interrupt the lecture, sir,” Tom said smoothly, regardless of Dumbledore’s intentions. “But he noticed that our textbook described a metamorphmagus as a witch or wizard who could perform human transfiguration with little effort and no wand. The teacher from his previous school, however, suggested that this was a poor description, given that most metamorphmagi cannot transfigure themselves into non-organic objects, not even partially. How would you explain the disparity?”

“I believe I was asking Mr. Potter, Tom,” Dumbledore replied sternly, unsmiling.

“I was embarrassed to ask, sir,” Potter said quickly, with ostensible sincerity. “Sorry. Sir.”

Dumbledore studied them for a long moment. “No reason to be embarrassed, Mr. Potter. You should never be ashamed for seeking answers to your questions.”

The professor moved on at that, jumping right into the next topic so smoothly that no one even noticed that he hadn’t provided the sought answer, but nevertheless kept an eye on them for the rest of the period. Tom kept his expression carefully neutral, studiously taking notes despite already having read extensively on the topic.

They didn’t speak again, but Potter kept lightly knocking their ankles and knees together, oblivious of Tom’s attempts to keep distance between them.

ooo

Whispers about Potter’s outburst travelled the school, as rumors tended to within the walls of Hogwarts. When they arrived at dinner, both he and Potter received their fair share of glances, murmurs of _love potion_ and _MacDougal_ echoing quietly across the room. Hopefully something more interesting would capture the student body’s attention by tomorrow, lest the gawking continued, but he couldn’t say that the lack of decorum surprised him.

The attention did catch Potter off guard, however, although the boy surprised him at how quickly he caught on. He noticed the reaction almost immediately upon entering the Great Hall and scowled fiercely, his posture growing defensive, but he recovered quickly, setting his jaw and striding to the table with his head held high. The boy made no comment, but that wouldn’t do. Tom wanted to know why Potter seemed accustomed to the gawking.

“It seems you’ve attracted unwanted notice,” he said, observing the boy carefully while he did.

Potter stopped scanning the hall, his eyes flickering back to Tom. He could never seem to stop looking, constantly peeking over at him, even when speaking with other people. The boy had frequently watched him even before he’d been influenced by the potion, but now he was less subtle, unashamed of his gaze or his obvious yearning. Tom wondered if the love potion caused the conspicuity, or if his acknowledgement of the boy’s existence was partially to blame.

“Some things never change,” Potter said dryly, confirming his suspicion before hesitating, biting his lip. “Did you...did you want me to sit somewhere else?”

“You wish to sit elsewhere?” Tom asked, raising his brow.

He thought for a moment that the potion had worn off early, because even if only a few effects lingered, Potter should want to stay as close to him as possible, no matter what Tom wanted. After all, the boy had tracked him down across the entirety of the school yesterday, regardless of Tom’s personal desires, so his sudden change of heart made little sense.

“No, but the rumors probably bother you, and I don’t want to ruin your image,” Potter explained, shoulders slumped. “I know you put a lot of effort into looking like the perfect Head Boy, and I’m messing it up. I picked a fight with a Gryffindor in front of an entire class.”

So love potion or not, Potter knew that his facade was of his own making.

With the boy’s unusual reactions, Tom reluctantly had to admit that the case would have been mildly fascinating, if he hadn’t been the unfortunate target of the boy’s affections. Tom never much cared for emotions, too messy and unscientific, but he’d long since learned how to predict them, and Potter somehow managed to defy expectations even while obeying them.

Love potions generally made the victim a slave to the target’s will: Potter should want to do whatever Tom said, unable to refuse direct requests. He should think of nothing except proximity and winning his affections, and struggle to go for more than a few minutes without commenting on his undying love. He should be practically mindless.

Certainly, Potter was more disposed to behave this way, but he also managed to resist these general expectations on various occasions. Potter worked around the potion, twisting the falsified emotions to justify his own preferences, suggesting a very strong will.

The boy avoided certain actions, despite Tom ordering him otherwise, deliberately risking his wrath. He controlled the fabricated emotions as he wished. Rather than telling Tom everything because he “loved” him, the boy kept things from him, declaring it in Tom’s best interest—because he “loved” him. The same motive, used to justify contrary ideas. He obeyed Tom’s will, but only when it benefited him or required little sacrifice.

Tom could respect a strong will, especially if it worked to his benefit.

“I would say MacDougal provoked the fight,” Tom said lightly, coming to a decision. “You merely retaliated. Not in the most Slytherin manner, perhaps, but no reason to eat alone. Sit.”

And Harry sat. Eventually students began to pay more attention to their own food than his and Potter’s, and so dinner proved tolerable. The boy’s behavior had certainly improved since the first day, providing no constant questioning, and his presence did drive away the obsequious lowlifes that he normally had to humor. The besotted looks repelled the usual sycophants; they repelled Tom as well, but unlike the others, he had no escape. Still, aside from the occasional love-sick proclamations scattered about, the boy conversed with him better than most of the others, preferable even to Abraxas or Cygnus. He wasn’t exceptionally brilliant, not like Tom, but he managed above average conversation, and he had a sharp tongue and dry wit.

That wasn’t quite it, though. Abraxas and Cygnus were certainly more sly, Tom mused. The difference was that Potter had the wit, but not the desire or the experience necessary to manipulate him, more careless with his words and lacking any subservient respect. He proclaimed his affection often, but he never demanded any recompense, and actually alluded to the fact that he knew very well that Tom felt nothing in return.

And it was painfully obvious that the boy had no political or social ambition whatsoever.

“Frowning like that tends to encourage them,” Tom said when Potter sent yet another particularly vicious glare at a peeping Gryffindor girl.

“My existence tends to encourage them,” he muttered mutinously, although he went back to his meal. He spoke with his mouth full, much to Tom’s disgust. “Honestly, what’s so interesting about a fight between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin? It’s not like I defeated a Dark Lord or fought a dragon.”

“Nothing, really,” Tom said easily. “Except that you’re new and no one knows anything about you, you spilled a love potion and got yourself infatuated with the Head Boy, and then you suddenly quarreled with one of the Gryffindor beaters. Despite lacking any redeeming features whatsoever, the idiot is rather popular due to Quidditch.”

“Half the school is infatuated with you,” Potter said matter-of-factly, before his face softened sickeningly. “Of course, I love you the most.”

“I’m sure,” Tom said sourly, having given up informing him that it was a _love potion_ , since the idiot always seemed to _mysteriously_ mishear.

“There’s a game on Saturday, isn’t there?” Potter mused, gaze sliding over to MacDougal after he’d been sufficiently reassured that yes, Tom was well aware of his nauseatingly persistent ardor. “He looks like he’d mistake his own head for a bludger. Hell, _I’d_ mistake his head for a bludger. I should’ve been a beater.”

“You play Quidditch?” Tom asked disinterestedly, not at all surprised. When the potion’s effects had been worse, Potter had asked him countless questions about the sport, now that bothered to think about it.

“Seeker,” Potter confirmed. “I transferred in after try-outs, though. Why don’t you play? You’d be good at flying. You’re good at everything.”

Potter gave him a saccharine smile, and Tom clenched his teeth, stifling his irritation. Conversations went much more smoothly when he didn’t snap at Potter for his potion-induced comments, because if he did, the boy went on about apologies and made even _more_ proclamations of love because he thought that Tom didn’t believe him.

He almost forced a humble denial past his lips, but then stopped consideringly, and in the end simply continued his dinner. Love potion or not, Potter had been at least partially aware of his true personality before the incident, and had never told. With the oath, Tom decided he could let the mask slip, just a little.

“I have more important things to do than chasing after balls and flying on plebeian cleaning devices,” he said instead. “Being good at ‘everything’ means that I have better things to be good _at_ than senseless games.”

To Tom’s surprise the boy only snorted. “I feel like I should be offended, but you _would_ say that. Don’t you at least have to pretend to care a little, because it’s so popular? What would the others say if they heard you insulting the Quidditch Cup?”

“You’re not the others, are you?” Tom asked after a pause, almost automatically. People always did want to think they were _special_. After a brief moment of deliberation, he leaned over the table, experimentally speaking in a soft, seductive voice. He looked up at Potter with half-lidded eyes. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”

He thought if there was ever a time to practice using this particular aspect of his charms, it might as well be on someone already infatuated with him, who wouldn’t expect him to follow through. He couldn’t embarrass himself too terribly, and even if Potter told, everyone would credit any insults to the boy’s humiliation over the whole incident. Yesterday had proven he lacked skills in the area.

He didn’t embarrass himself, regardless. He observed carefully as Potter’s breath caught, and if he looked closely, the boy’s eyes had even dilated. His fork hovered halfway between his plate and his mouth, treacle tart forgotten. Tom smirked, and Potter’s face flushed a terribly satisfying red.

“I-” Potter stuttered, his gaze visibly trapped on Tom’s lips. “I mean, um. Of course I won’t. I wouldn’t.”

“I believe you, Harry,” Tom practically crooned. He went back to his food, but the love-struck fool stared at him for several more seconds before apparently remembering his hovering fork. Tom’s smirk widened.

Really, Potter made it _too easy_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I came to a realization the other day. Harry’s name is terrible for ship names. ALL of the HP character names are terrible for ship names. Like, Drarry? It sounds like dreary. Tomarry? Sort of cute, I guess, but I’m not 100% sure it suits them. Tom destroying Harry’s childhood? Adorable.
> 
> Also, how do you put Hermione with anybody? Termione...termite. Or who starts with an L? Lione...
> 
> And I don’t even know what Tom and Draco would be. I don’t personally ship them, but if it’s Taco, I will be the happiest person.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Anyone else see the meteors this week? So pretty. :)
> 
> Here’s the chapter!

Tom didn’t often have nightmares, but when he did, he dreamed about death. Terribly unoriginal, but a powerful fear nonetheless; after all, no one mastered death. He would, but not yet.

A person woke up when they died in a dream. This was common knowledge. Tom’s nightmares tormented him because he didn’t dream that he was dying, he dreamed that he was already dead. You could escape life, but you couldn’t die again to flee death itself, and so his dreams entrapped him.

In the afterlife he didn’t have magic. He sank to the level of his muggle father; no, he grew even _weaker_ than his muggle father. The afterlife allowed the man to seek his vengeance, and Tom suffered endlessly at his hands, suffered endlessly at the hands of all the people he had yet to kill. Even Myrtle tormented him, shrieking about yellow eyes and an eternity of madness, and Tom could handle pain, but he couldn’t handle weakness.

He’d always sworn to never be helpless again, to show his superiority, but in the afterlife he became nothing more than a powerless shade of what he’d been. He hated it, he hated it, he hated, hated, hated-

“-om,” a voice broke through the haze. “Tom! Wake up.”

He awoke with a sharp breath, but otherwise made no other sound, his wide eyes the only signal of his consciousness. Green ones looked down at him, pinched and worried, their color dulled by the darkness.

“You were having a nightmare,” Potter whispered redundantly.

“I wasn’t,” Tom breathed, denying the obvious. If he spoke confidently, most people were perfectly willing to be fed a lie. “Go back to bed.”

“What was it about?,” Potter asked quietly, and instead of going back to bed, he plopped down next to him. He’d brought over his own pillow, suggesting that he didn’t intend a short visit.

“Go back to bed,” Tom hissed, shoving the boy violently and rolling away to put a few more inches between them. “It wasn’t about anything, because I wasn’t having a nightmare.”

“You were too,” Potter said accusingly.

“I wasn’t,” he snapped.

“Were."

“Wasn’t,” he said viciously, before cutting himself off, his patience and wit dulled by his exhaustion. “Your concern is touching,” he forced out, his voice odd while caught between his anger and his compassionate veneer. “But you should go back to bed.”

“I had a nightmare too,” Potter mumbled drowsily, burrowing his head in his pillow and ignoring him completely. “I think it’s these bloody dungeons. They’re freezing, just like dementors. They got Cedric, and I could hear her screaming...”

“Who was screaming?” Tom asked warily, curious despite himself. Had Potter been in the presence of dementors before? That sounded like a revisit of his worst memory.

“My mother,” he murmured, squinting at Tom and continuing before he could ask why his mother screamed. “What are you even afraid of, that you can have nightmares? Death, I guess, but I thought you were supposed to wake up when you die in a dream.”

Tom sat up, his hand twitching for his wand, but this time resisting the urge. A wand at Potter’s throat hadn’t helped in the past, and he hated to admit it, but seeing no spark of fear made him feel more powerless than before he’d drawn.

So he told himself that Potter’s comment had been a lucky guess. Everyone feared death, so naturally Potter thought of it when nothing else struck him as immediately obvious. He lowered himself back onto his pillow. Potter knew nothing.

Even if the boy did potentially know about the horcruxes.

_You’ll tear up your soul, your sanity, and all for what?_

He brushed away the thought.

“I will toss you to the floor,” he threatened darkly, feeling increasingly irritated as Potter made himself comfortable in _his_ bed. The boy stretched languidly, giving a somnolent groan.

“I’ll toss...you...” Potter muttered, interrupted briefly by a yawn. “On the...floor...”

Tom narrowed his eyes, picked up his wand, cast a quick silencing charm, and felt a level of satisfaction when Potter fell to the floor with a thud, letting out a loud yelp as he hit. Tom looked over the edge to see Potter trying to glare at him, but without his glasses, his squinting rather ruined the effect.

“I do not make idle threats,” Tom warned him.

“I don’t either,” Potter said, stumbling to his feet and plopping right back into the bed. Tom felt his eye twitch. “Remember that, because I’m telling you that I’ll keep coming back, even if I have to crawl or wake up Malfoy to get through the wards.”

“Abraxas wouldn’t dare,” Tom said venomously. Nor would he have the skills.

“He would if I said I thought something was wrong,” Potter said, his eyelids already drooping.

“Malfoy, I don’t know what’s wrong, I just keep hearing him _whimpering_ ,” he said in a voice of faux concern and panic, his arm flopping sleepily for emphasis.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Tom hissed.

“I thought _Abraxas_ wouldn’t dare?” Potter asked with another yawn. “Shut it, would you? We’re both having nightmares, I might as well just sleep here.”

“And this has nothing to do with the love potion, does it?” he asked scathingly. “How do I know you won’t molest me in my sleep?”

Before he could blink, Potter propped himself up and leaned over, pressing their lips together. A hand tangled in Tom’s hair, holding him in place so he couldn’t flinch away, and he felt something wet and firm touch his bottom lip— _Potter’s tongue—_ before he reacted and roughly shoved the boy away.

Potter slumped back onto his pillow, face-down and unbothered. “I promise to only molest you while you’re awake,” he promised sluggishly, his voice slurred and muffled in the fabric.

Tom didn’t move for a moment, breathing harshly, almost blinded by rage. He had his wand at Potter’s nape, despite his earlier resolve, trembling with fury. He caught himself just in time, and took a deep, calming breath.

“Then for your sake, I hope you fall asleep fast, Potter,” he spat hatefully.

He waited half an hour for the idiot to drop off into a deeper sleep, and after strengthening his silencing charm, he found great satisfaction in listening to Potter’s muttered curses about being deposited on the floor for the second time that night.

After all, one woke up when they died, but they also woke up when falling.

ooo

Tom had spent his six years carefully cultivating acquaintances, making enemies only when deemed advantageous or necessary. He would have doubtlessly gotten through seventh year just as well, if it hadn’t been for one unfortunate and infuriating fact.

Potter had, it appeared, a penchant for inadvertent trouble.

To be fair, the gossip doubtlessly would have died down if MacDougal hadn’t been a vindictive, vapid halfwit, but Tom had given up on fair since the tender age of four. _Fair_ didn’t reclaim his stolen lunch from Billy Stubs.

In angering MacDougal, Potter had antagonized a good portion of the fool’s friends. This wasn’t _all_ of the Gryffindors, not by a long shot, but the cretins blamed _all_ of Slytherin for the humiliation. The Slytherins, in turn, blamed the growing hostility on the entirety of Gryffindor house, not distinguishing between individuals in their retaliation. Other Gryffindors and Slytherins were thus drawn into the fight, and even if they didn’t have anything against Tom or Harry personally, the situation continued to escalate.

Before, the House of Slytherin had been content to overlook Potter, mostly due to his introverted behavior, acceptable surname, and the fact that he only had one remaining year left at Hogwarts. Now they noticed that the boy wasn’t as unthreatening as he had initially appeared, and had, in fact, induced a House War. Combined with his potion-induced infatuation with Tom, he became the direct target of malicious gossip and taunts.

Tom was infuriatingly dragged into the mess, since Potter refused to leave his side. He considered taking _drastic action_ to rid himself of the pest, but he knew how quickly the target of Hogwart’s rumors could change. He didn’t dare try anything with so much attention on the two of them, not when Potter could easily be turned into a _tragic_ victim— _such a quiet boy_ —and Tom into the villain: _it’s always the nice ones, isn’t it?_

Tom found himself left with limited options. Cutting off Potter would garner unwanted attention as well, and would gain the boy sympathy, since the love potion spill had been an accident. He couldn’t _help_ acting like a fool, and the school would view Tom unkindly if he punished the boy for it.

Besides, he found himself unentirely sure he _could_ successfully ditch Potter, since the boy had an uncanny knack for finding the school’s best retreats. If all else failed, he supposed he could always use the Chamber, since Parselmouth or not, Potter would never find it.

On the other hand, he could subtly encourage the House War, while maintaining an outward appearance of a Head Boy pandering for inter-house unity. As one of the focal points of the rumors, he could...manipulate them, so that they reflected more favorably on the both of them.

He favored the second option, especially since he had already formed a plan on how to do so.

There was a Quidditch match tomorrow, and the relations between Gryffindor and Slytherin would only worsen in the upcoming time. His plan gambled on the boy’s skill, but based on the information he’d procured from Potter, he had a talent for the game. Probably better than their current Seeker; Tom knew enough about the sport to recognize the two-year failure to catch the snitch as an extremely poor record, especially when up against mudbloods who’d thought of brooms as nothing more than cleaning contraptions before Hogwarts.

So Tom planned, and in the meantime, he worked on his potion’s homework. Potter sat across from him, pretending to do his Charms, but in reality spending more time staring at Tom with a besotted expression.

The Slytherin common room had a tranquil atmosphere, given that only a few classes had a free period at the moment, quiet chattering filling the background. He normally would not have spent his own free hour there, but he passed enough time in the common room socializing that it wasn’t remarkably unusual. They had claimed the table closest to the fireplace, faintly warming the cold dungeon air.

Finally, Winky Crockett entered ten minutes later, sitting in his usual spot, incidentally only a table over from where Tom had chosen to sit. Crockett looked unsurprisingly stressed; as the Quidditch team captain, he knew well Slytherin’s unfavorable chances at the cup this year. One of Ravenclaw’s Chasers was the pureblood nephew of Lars Lundekvam, professional Quidditch player extraordinaire, who unfortunately had the talent to back up his incessant boasting. Gryffindor’s players were all sixth and seventh years, skilled veterans, and even Hufflepuff had a “natural talent” for a Keeper.

“You said you were a good Seeker, didn’t you, Harry?” Tom asked idly, loud enough for Crockett to hear, but not so loud that he obviously _wanted_ him to hear. “Shame it’s your last year.”

“I’m all right at it,” Potter mumbled, seeming genuinely embarrassed, his face flushing red under Tom’s scrutiny. It mystified Tom somewhat, to see someone truly uncomfortable with admitting their skills, and not just presenting a humble front to hide his vanity.

“Nonsense,” Tom said, flashing a smile just a bit too wide. “Come now, surely you want to impress me. I’m offering you the perfect chance to boast without coming across as immodest,” he teased with calculating precision.

“Well...I did swallow the snitch once, in my first game, although I’m not sure I should be bragging about that,” Potter said wryly.

“Very dedicated,” Tom said with humorous solemnity, flashing the boy a flirtatious smile in the hopes that Potter would better cooperate. He saw Crockett listening from the corner of his eye; he needed Potter to say something _impressive_ , not entertaining. “What about your second game?”

“Not very exciting,” Potter admitted. “I caught it in under five minutes. My team was upset that I didn’t give them a chance to show off.”

Tom saw Selwyn lean closer, visibly interested now. “Well, the fastest capture recorded is seven seconds, so there’s always room for improvement,” he teased deviously, hoping to goad Potter into more impressive feats.

“Three and a half seconds,” Potter corrected absent-mindedly, seeming to warm to the topic now. Most people did enjoy apprising others of their talents, and he was no exception with the right encouragement. “You know, speaking of dedication, the game after that, I caught the snitch with a broken arm. Hermione threw a fit when Wood congratulated me for continuing to play. And in second year her rants were terrifying,” he grinned, eyes dancing with mirth. “I hadn’t developed an immunity yet.

Tom studied him for a moment, ignoring Crockett’s visible appraisal of Potter, a hungry expression in the captain’s eyes. At the very least, Crockett would want to try out the boy for the second or third matches of the year, even if for the first game he preferred to stick with the team he’d been training. Never mind that; Tom would arrange the _sine qua non_.

No, what troubled Tom was that yet again, Potter had acted just a little bit _off_. To the casual listener, there wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary in what he’d just shared, but Tom heard the peculiarities, having grown conscious of them the past few days.

 _Three and a half seconds_. The record for the fastest catch was most definitely seven; Tom had heard it plenty of times throughout his stay at Hogwarts, and with a memory like his it was impossible to forget, despite his disinterest. Perhaps it could have been credited to Potter’s terrible memory, except that Potter actually _played_ Quidditch, not like him, and he’d said it so assuredly that Tom had almost wondered if there’d been a recent record-breaker, except that undoubtedly would have been reported in the Daily Prophet. Potter had provided such a _specific_ number, as well, to the half-second...

So perhaps the boy was mistaken. But disregarding that small detail, how had Potter not only stayed on his broom with a broken arm, but managed to maintain the focus to _win_? At age _twelve_? How had he developed such a high pain tolerance?

“Sorry, I’m bragging,” Potter muttered, smile gone, snapping Tom out of his whirling thoughts. He silently cursed himself; he’d let himself be distracted when he should have been encouraging Potter’s reiteration of his talents.

Of course, the most obvious explanation remained that Potter was lying, but somehow Tom doubted this. He had a way of... _knowing_ , when he was lied to.

“Not at all,” he reassured him, making his lips twitch into a fetching smile. “You simply charmed me into silence, I was so impressed by your illustrious career.”

Potter eyed the smile suspiciously, while at the same time looking quite taken with it, resulting in a rather amusing frown-turned-gape. Tom wondered vaguely at the fact that at this point Potter’s ogling had started to entertain him, whereas normally he condemned others for doing the same. He supposed it indulged his ego, especially when he viewed Potter as harmless, too stupid and love-sick to threaten him. Even with the love potion, a few close-mouthed kisses were the most that he’d tried.

“What is it?” he asked pleasantly, after he’d decided that the boy had gaped for long enough.

“You’re beautiful,” Potter murmured unexpectedly at that, catching him off guard, although he’d never admit it. He covered it quickly, sending the boy a disapproving look. He hadn’t expected the idiot to be so forward, but again, _love potion._ At least it caused Crockett to turn away; Tom only enjoyed being eavesdropped on when he’d arranged it in the first place. The conversation had served its purpose.

“Do your homework, Harry,” said Tom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys. The support from last chapter was staggering. I was completely blown away. I don’t even know what to say, except...
> 
> ...I AM HONORED TO HAVE SPARKED THE TACO REVOLUTION! YES, ALL HAIL TACO! TACOOOOOOo bwahahahahaha. Taco appreciates your undying support.
> 
> No, but in all honesty: Taco!revolutionary or not, thank you so much for the feedback. Reading through your comments is so motivating and uplifting. Thank you thank you thank you. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eheh. So I updated this in November!!!! ...On fanfiction.net. OOPS. You guys were supposed to get this chapter over a month ago. I'M SORRY! I forgot.
> 
> On the bright side, whenever I post the next chapter, it'll feel much sooner for those of you reading on this site? :D (...if there are any of you left...)
> 
> (im sorryyyy T.T)

Tom had plenty of practical experience when it came to dueling, but even he would reluctantly admit to the difference between a schoolyard fight or the dueling club, compared to life-or-death combat against older, veteraned adults. 

The inexperience nagged at him, and he swore to remedy the incapacity as soon as he graduated. For now he satisfied himself with his position as best duelist in the school. By age seventeen, he knew he already had enough experience to defeat most adults, or at the least the ones who lacked practical exposure. He might not hold the uncontested crown, but given time, he would. He was already well on his way.

So Potter had absolutely no reason to hold back when dueling him. 

“Come, Potter, surely you can do better than that?” he demanded, as soon as Professor Merrythought wandered out of earshot. 

He’d seen the boy’s written Defense Against the Dark Art’s work; he performed slightly above average, but nothing that could match Tom. Of course, he knew Potter would not want to hurt him because of the Mollis Caritate—which just reaffirmed his belief that love was weak—but he found himself insulted that Potter thought he could hurt him, deluded by a potion or not. 

Besides the slight to his skill, the absence of a challenge bored him. He’d been the uncontested champion since his fourth year, in which he had caused a stir by defeating Antonin Dolohov, the school’s top duelist, extremely skilled and three years his senior. He hadn’t had much of a contest since then, but at least Potter presented a novelty. The enclosed environment of Hogwarts offered few chances to fight new opponents.

Tom disarmed him with yet another casual flick of his wrist, the wand flying to his outstretched hand, and he followed it quickly with a nonverbal Levicorpus. The boy joined several of his classmates, who dangled inelegantly in the air.

“You can already do the spell nonverbally,” Potter complained, his glasses dangling precariously off of one ear, in danger of falling off. “You don’t even need to practice, so why don’t you just let me practice it on you?”

“That would be undignified,” Tom said with contempt. “And beneath me. The Professor said to incorporate the spell in a mock duel, so I shan’t lower myself to the mercy of someone who has yet to disarm me.”

He didn’t truly expect Potter to manage even that, but surely the boy could last longer than a few pathetic seconds. He’d seen him fight in a few casual classroom duels, and Potter had a modicum of talent in the area.

“It’s a Levicorpus, you wouldn’t be lowering yourself, you’d be up in the air,” Potter pointed out snarkily, cutting off when Tom dropped him to the floor in a heap. “Oomph.”

“You think I’m perfect, don’t you?” Tom asked softly. “The love potion ensures that much. You should know that you can’t possibly win, so what do you accomplish by forfeiting so easily?”

“What do I get from winning?” Potter retorted, propping himself up on his elbows. He straightened his glasses with a habitual gesture.

Tom looked at him consideringly. Potter was a Slytherin, after all. He supposed there’d be no harm in offering a little incentive, since he wouldn’t lose either way, and he could gain much from this.

“What do you want?” he asked. Potter looked surprised, but his expression quickly turned thoughtful. 

“Um,” the boy said, sitting up fully and looking down at his lap, his neck flushing. “How about...a kiss?”

Tom kept his expression blank. He’d expected Potter to ask for an answer to one of his questions, but he supposed that the infatuation could manifest itself in a variety of ways. He didn’t bother bargaining down the price; he wouldn’t lose.

“Fine,” Tom agreed with a predatory smile. “But if I win, you tell me how you know Parseltongue.” He had more that he wanted to ask, but he chose the most straightforward. “And you stay in your bed tonight.”

“You’re making me bet two things for your one,” Potter said, eyes narrowing. “If I win, you have to tell me about your parents.”

“If I win, you have to tell me about yours,” Tom countered immediately. 

That information must have at least some value, given the apparent secrecy about where Potter had come from. Was he the son of a mudblood, or born out of wedlock? His blood status could become critical in the future.

“That’s three things,” Potter protested.

“That’s my final offer,” he said, because impossible for him to lose or not, he’d never make a bet in which he risked more than he had to gain. He held out Potter’s wand, and with a scowl, the boy took it.

The scowl faded considerably when he scrambled to his feet just a little too close to Tom, their faces inches away. Potter’s breath caught, eyes blown wide, and he started to lean forward-

Tom quickly stepped back, out of range from Potter’s petty lust. The boy blinked, but the moment seemed to have given him a surge of energy, his eyes flicking down to Tom’s lips and back up to his eyes. Potter tightened his grip on his wand and bounced slightly on the balls of his feet.

“On three,” Tom said, lifting his wand in the typical dueling salute. Might as well do this properly. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw they’d attracted a few curious observers, doubtlessly waiting to see Potter crushed in a humiliating defeat. His classmates might know him for his kindness in class, but he’d made a point to be nothing short of ruthless when it came to wand work, which they also knew well. 

Potter lifted his own wand in a matching salute, giving the impression of having done so before. Tom gave the slightest bow, respectful but keeping his face upturned to Harry. The boy suddenly hesitated, a flash of recognition darkening his eyes. 

“You've been taught how to duel, I presume? First we bow to each other,” Tom prompted smoothly. He supposed Potter might lack knowledge in the area after all, but he felt a niggle of doubt when the boy still didn’t bow, gaping at him openly, mild horror in his expression, not at all like his usual love-struck gaping.

“Come now, Harry, the niceties must be observed,” he said sharply. “You would not want to forget your manners. I said, ‘Bow’.”

He wished he could throw an Imperious and skip past the pleasantries, but they’d gathered even more attention by this point. Keeping the ire out of his voice proved difficult. Potter seemed to be having some sort of anxiety attack, frozen in place.

“Harry,” he said again, looking Potter in the eye. 

The boy blinked, taking a shallow breath and seeming to come back to the world, as if his mind had been lost in another time or memory. 

“What, are you not going to ask me to bow to Death?” Potter asked sharply, the first time Tom had ever heard him angry since he’d spilled the potion. Incomprehensibly, he rubbed his forehead before murmuring incoherently.

A flash of legilimency allowed Tom to hear the echo of a voice, straight-backed and proud, like your father, but he didn’t dare delve deeper with so many witnesses.  
He found himself inexplicably irritated by the fact that Potter focused on something other than him. He had a distanced look in his eyes, reminiscing about some past duel, but he should be focused on Tom. He, the worthy opponent, the one here with him now, should be the center of his thoughts. And for Potter to ignore him under the spell of a love potion that should make him obsessed with him... 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” he said with cutting coolness. “It’s just a friendly duel. Bow.”

Potter’s hand trembled on his wand, but tightening his grip with a steely expression, he stiffly lowered himself into a small, jerky bow without another word. The dazed look in his eyes disappeared, replaced with an angry determination.

He turned on his heel. Tom watched him with suspicion, unwilling to admit that the exchange had unnerved him. The look on Potter’s face didn’t look like the expression of someone eager to win a kiss. Shaking off the thought, he turned in the opposite direction.

“One,” he counted, a dozen spells already on the tip of his tongue. For him, the challenge had never been to remember a spell, but rather to choose one of many.

“Two,” said Tom, his footsteps steady. He saw Malfoy and Avery watching them with nothing less than eager sadism, betting if Potter would last more or less than seven seconds.

“Three,” he said abruptly, already turning on his heel before he’d even started the word. To his surprise, Potter reacted just as quickly; if anything, he’d started turning around before him. 

“Stupify,” Potter shouted, beating Tom to the first spell, forcing him to counter. It was a far cry from how the boy had fought before, but still not particularly original. 

Yet, there was something in his eyes... it didn’t seem like he was fighting Tom anymore.

Later he would admit, if only to himself, that he might have let his anger cloud his judgment. He was the better duelist, no doubt; he knew more spells, and he had the creativity to use them to their utmost potential. 

But in his irritation and frustration, he had underestimated him. He wanted more hints to explain the boy’s new, volatile approach; Potter fought him like an enemy, not his schoolboy crush. He attacked head-on, no subtlety of which to speak, so Tom assumed it safe to draw it out, thinking that the other student would only grow more tired and frustrated as time went on.

Potter proved unpredictable, or perhaps all too predictable; hubris had a way of leading to destruction, although Tom had always considered his own pride as confidence rather than arrogance. He’d always scoffed at those who failed because of their own conceit. 

Potter had fought many opponents stronger than himself, that much was obvious. He didn’t even bother with many of the counter curses, opting to simply dodge out of the way for a great number of them, and he focused on finding openings rather than creating them. He wasn’t particularly creative in the traditional sense, employing rather standard spells, but the way he used them caught Tom off guard. He was aggressive, and his attacks had power. He fired one spell after another, no hesitation, reckless and unafraid of retaliation.

In the background, Tom heard Professor Merrythought telling them to yield, but neither of them listened. They both breathed hard, the duel far more intense and lasting for far longer than any of their classmate’s standoffs. They’d have caught the attention of the whole room, by now.

Potter had shown talent in dueling before, but nothing like this.

“Serpensortia,” Potter hissed, casting a snake across the room. This garnered whispers and snickers from others, especially the Slytherins, who wondered what he hoped to accomplishing by tossing a snake at the Heir. 

Of course, he couldn’t speak to it without exposing this unique skill to the teachers and school at large, and Potter knew it.

Tom had no sooner vanished it, than he found himself under a barrage of new spells. His downfall was his own competency: he prepared to send a curse, but he hesitated for the briefest of seconds, because he’d read it from a book he’d borrowed from Black, making the legality questionable. He would have won the duel if he’d cast it, but if he did so in the middle of class, he could jeopardize his standing in Hogwarts and his future career.

It was the briefest of hesitations, and duelists far older than Tom could have easily missed it. 

Potter did not.

To his utter dismay and fury, Tom realized that he’d allowed Potter to find the opening he’d been waiting for, and he knew what came, but he failed to incant his alternative spell in time. 

“Imped-” he started, but Potter was already halfway through his own.

“Expelliarmus!” Potter finished, sending an incredibly powerful disarming curse, causing Tom to stumble back. 

Potter caught the wand easily, but he didn’t lower his own, keeping it steadily leveled at Tom’s chest. The entire class gawked silently, their heavy breathing the only audible sound.

“Well,” Professor Merrythought said eventually, causing several startled eyes to dart in her direction. “Well. It was a very impressive duel, boys, but you were supposed to be practicing the Levicorpus jinx. Mister Potter, would you lower your wand?”

And just like that, the boy blinked, his wand dropping a few inches, his face going slack with shock. He suddenly groaned, turning away from the duel with a hand to his forehead, clamping over his scar.

Tom was furious. Normally he would swear revenge, except that he’d forced Potter to duel him, and everyone had seen them. If Tom took any private vengeance, there would always be those who suspected him as the one responsible, a sore loser and a coward. 

Loathe as he was to admit it, he recognized the disarming spell as a much more dignified loss than being dangled in the air, and his rage increased tenfold when he realized that he owed Potter a debt.

But no, Potter had tricked him; he’d deliberately misled Tom into thinking him an incompetent duelist, and he had been the one to suggest wagering on the outcome. And Tom should have won, except for the idiotic restrictions of the ministry-

“Mr. Potter?” Professor Merrythought’s voice cut through his rage. She and the rest of the class ogled not at him but at Potter, whose face paled a terrible white, a clammy sweat trickling down his neck.

“Why am I angry?” Potter asked anxiously, lips taut and conflicted. He pressed on his scar until his knuckles grew white. “I love him, I shouldn’t be angry-”

The professor furrowed her brow at that. “Mr. Potter, the love potion seems to be causing you distress. Why don’t you go to the hospital wing?”

“I can take him, Professor,” Tom cut in smoothly, but she looked undecided at his offer.

“It seems like he’s fighting its effects, perhaps someone else...” she trailed off, looking between the two boys hesitantly. She sent Tom an apologetic glance; she valued him as her prize student, no surprise, but she also had a level head, and knew not to trifle with the messy art of potions. 

“I believe I can fix the problem,” Tom explained with quiet humility, just the right amount of hesitance in his voice. “The duel just got a bit out of hand, and it incensed...strong, conflicting emotions, which cause pain for the victim. I simply wish to apologize and relieve the conflict, but given his...condition, privacy would be appreciated, Professor.”

“You mean well, Tom,” Professor Merrythought said uncertainly. “But the love potion will affect his emotions, won’t they? I’m not sure if you should apologize to him in this condition...”

Tom suppressed his already significant irritation, his eyes flickering briefly over to check on Potter, checking to ensure that the boy paid them no mind. The professor adored Tom, this was true, but she also liked Potter, given his quiet demeanor and talent for the class. She would feel certain that Tom only had the best of intentions, but a part of her would doubt; even the most mild-tempered and brilliant of students must have occasional spats, she would think. She wouldn’t want the boy “manipulated” by the potion into forgiving Tom prematurely when she didn’t know what had prompted the disagreement. Tom didn’t know what prompted Potter’s sudden vexation, but he could reassure the professor easily enough.

Tom lowered his head, rubbing the side of his neck, feigning embarrassment. He spoke with deliberate hesitance.

“Professor, it’s just...” Tom glanced at the boy, and then looked quickly away, as if shy and embarrassed. “He was angry because I refused to kiss him, you see. It’s not his fault, of course, and he’s actually rather understanding for someone influenced by a love potion. But I’m sorry to say that I was a bit short with him, and then the duel...If I could only apologize, and explain to him why...Well, you see. He would understand, I’m sure, it’s just a bit...”

“Oh,” Professor Merrythought said, flushing a bit. “Oh. I see. Yes. Yes, that would cause some conflict, wouldn’t it? He wants to...But he can’t...yes, perhaps you should speak to him.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Tom said, pulling up his lips into a relieved smile. He moved towards Harry, placing a subtle hand on his back, urging him away.

“Of course, of course,” she said, waving a hand at them dismissively. “Take as long as you need. Oh!” she paused, giving Tom a kindly look. “And Tom, don’t feel pressured to do anything you wouldn’t want to. Just remember that Potter will understand your refusal, and will probably even thank you for it, when the potion wears off.”

As if someone could force him into anything he didn’t want to do. 

“Of course, Professor,” Tom said, not a hint of anger in his voice as he led Potter out the classroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Tom defeated Dolohov in this verse, but Harry beat Antonin Dolohov (who's considered extremely skilled) and Lucius in the Department of Mysteries.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (The Road So Far): Harry just beat Tom in a duel...but it has brought back memories of Voldemort that are allowing him to fight off the love potion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHMYGODDDD YOU'LL NEVER BELIEVE IT. SOMEONE ACUALLY MADE ME [ FANART ](http://ponnukakku.deviantart.com/art/Chocolate-frogs-596628188). LIFE IS GOOD. CHECK THIS OUTTTTT it's by the user [ ponnu ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ponnu/pseuds/ponnu)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ohmygoddd 
> 
> (P.S. This is a friendly alert for old readers. For new readers--this image is already linked in its Chapter 2 scene. Ohmygodddd though can you believe it ohmygodddd)

Clutching his forehead, Potter bent over double in the hallway, fighting off the love potion’s effects. Tom would have been enthused at the prospect, except for the deplorable timing.

Fighting off the love potion now would inhibit Potter’s already-reticent replies. Before Potter regained his autonomy, Tom wanted to know how the boy had found out so much about his personal ambitions, with himself none the wiser. It didn’t escape him that every time he sought information about the horcruxes, even now, the boy gave incredibly vague answers.

This did not even take into account how the boy knew parseltongue, and how he knew about Tom’s relation to the Gaunts. He presumably hailed from the House of Potter, but Tom had seen the Gaunt family tree, and saw no way that the boy could descend from both lines within the last century. 

Then the subtle personality quirks compounded the mystery; the strange words, his apparent familiarity with public scrutiny, his lack of “common sense” for modern-day factoids. For such an accomplished Quidditch player, Potter should know that no seeker had ever caught the snitch in three and a half seconds, even if he did have mixed blood.

If Potter managed to break the spell out of anger instead of the potion wearing off naturally, he’d likely be significantly less palatable to Tom’s search for answers. While extracting information would not be impossible, he had no desire to waste such time with a simpler solution readily available.

So despite his fury at losing the duel, he focused on the matter at hand. 

“Harry,” he said gently, his voice clear and ringing with sincerity. “Are you all right?”

“You’re him,” Potter muttered, still pressing at his scar. “But not yet. You didn’t force me to bow, you asked. But you did force me. Will force me. You’re not him...I love you. No, I can’t. What if you’re him?”

Tom wondered, not for the first time, if English was the boy’s second tongue. It would explain the strange inconsistencies that occasionally popped up in his speech, made-up words that he used absently and then the mix-up of tenses when he grew particularly distressed.  _ Did _ force him,  _ will _ force him. Had it already happened, or did Potter expect it to happen? Time was easy to mistake when changing dialects. 

“Who is ‘him’?” he asked, so piqued at waiting for so many answers and receiving none, that he barely registered the casual use of the word  _ love. _

“You,” Potter said, turning away from Tom to face the wall. His disregard infuriated him.

“The other him,” Tom snapped, grabbing Potter’s wrist, dragging it away from the scar and forcing the boy to turn back to him. It looked the same as always: faint, pink, and jagged.

“You,” Potter said again, eyes wild, emotions in turmoil and his wrist twitching agitatedly in his grasp.

Tom let out an exasperated growl, before dragging Potter to a more private area, away from where the students would wander when dismissed from class. They ended up in an abandoned classroom, filth scattered across all of the desks except one. Two sets of hand prints smudged the dusty surface, as though someone had bent over it, and Tom scowled in distaste when he realized what the room had been used for last.

Nonetheless, he discarded the thought, searching Potter’s robes with little sense of propriety. Potter made a vague sound of confusion, but Tom quickly found what he searched for, snatching back his wand and sending a locking charm at the door. 

Potter’s anger and confusion seemed to have faded somewhat after their walk, but a brooding expression still cast shadows over his features, and so Tom prepared against any risks. Although he’d likely regret this later when the boy pestered him, the potion couldn’t stop working now. Potter’s information would probably prove useless, but Tom couldn’t take the chance. 

Swallowing his distaste, he spoke stiffly. 

“This will be one of my secrets, so you shan’t tell, under the word of your oath. Understood?” he asked, and Potter blinked in confusion. 

Tom didn’t wait for a response, knowing that his statement would be sufficient. He held back a disgusted grimace, stowed away his wand, and yanked Potter forward and into a kiss.

Potter froze, and Tom took his face in his hands, stroking his fingers lightly over Potter’s cheekbones. Neither of them had closed their eyes, Tom’s half-open, finding it unnatural to trust someone in such a way, and so he saw the moment that the love potion took effect, strengthening its hold. 

Tom moved his lips slowly, holding the boy firmly in place, and Potter’s eyes suddenly dazed over, reminiscent of someone under the Imperius Curse. 

Potter’s eyes closed then, and his arms came up, clutching at Tom’s shoulders. He leaned forward so that no space remained between them, and Tom found himself mildly surprised at how  _ soft _ it was. With so many bones, he would have thought another human would be terribly uncomfortable to stand so close to, but despite being solid and firm, Tom encountered no stray elbows or knees. 

Or perhaps not so surprising; Potter hardly  _ attacked _ him. He kissed clumsily, and Tom still didn’t see what his classmates fussed about, but it wasn’t as slimy or disgusting as he’d expected. He’d kissed a few people before, but he’d always kept a respectable distance between them, none of this pressing of bodies. He’d also obliviated them afterwards, not wanting to deal with the  _ clinging _ , and he’d been half-tempted to obliviate himself. No, he’d never let them so close, and while this kiss wasn’t pleasurable, it wasn’t...unpleasant.

Tom suddenly wondered if he could make it pleasant, if he tried. Potter couldn’t tell  anyone, after all, and for the first time he actually wanted to encourage attachment. He thought he might as well try, just once. It seemed unfair that others would gain this gratification when he did not, and like most things unfair, Tom had discovered one had to  _ take _ rather than wait and hope for the best.

Tom’s hands slid down Potter’s chest, wrapping around his waist and tugging him closer, so that he pressed more tightly against him. He disliked others standing so close, but that aversion eased at his obvious control over the situation. He could hardly feel threatened by the boy when Potter’s hands went nowhere near his wand, and he’d had to wheedle him into the duel in the first place.

Oh. Perhaps that was it. He suspected that Potter had some sort of bad experience, involving a duel of which Tom had unknowingly reminded him. That would explain the constant ramblings of “you’re not him”. And then perhaps the potion had addled his brain even further, because Tom had forced him into the duel. 

He wanted to do as Tom wished, so he’d dueled him. He had wanted a kiss, so he’d fought hard. But the love potion had demanded that he not win against Tom, and combined with whatever traumatic memories he had, the conflicting emotions had all been too much. 

Tom had given too many conflicting demands, thus Potter had been in pain, and the potion’s grip had loosened.

Potter let out a moan as he slid his tongue into Tom’s mouth, clutching hard at his shirt. The action brought him back from his musings, peering at Potter’s scar through half-lidded eyes. The boy must have gotten it in whatever duel he’d been recalling. 

Potter suddenly broke away, catching Tom off guard, but he understood once he heard the other boy’s panting. Even his breathing had picked up a bit, and he’d had the presence of mind to breathe through his nose. Clearly Potter had been less practical, more focused on other things. 

He leaned into Tom, pressing his face into his neck, and he startled a bit when he felt something warm and wet on his skin. It moved higher, leaving a wet trail that felt startlingly cool at the absence of a mouth, the air creating a cold, tingling sensation.

_ Potter’s tongue. _ And Tom  _ liked _ that, he realized with shock, his body giving the slightest shiver.

Tom tilted his head towards the other student, turning his face and forcing the boy to pull away. He regretted it somewhat when Potter didn’t try to continue, leaning back with a blush.

“Sorry,” Potter mumbled, although a small smile graced his lips.

Tom studied him for a moment, their faces far too close, Potter’s glasses once again crooked on his nose. Keeping his expression blank, he slipped his arms out of the embrace and straightened his robes.

“Never let it be said that I don’t keep up my side of a wager,” he said, taking out his wand and undoing his earlier locking spell. 

Potter frowned, straightening his glasses. Tom strode out of the room, leaving the door open, and a moment later the boy darted after him.

“Wait, if this was about the bet, then you said you’d tell me about your parents, too,” Potter impudently pointed out, still slightly out of breath, but voice admirably steady.

“I gave you half of your winnings,” Tom said. “Because it was only half of a win. The purpose of the exercise was to practice the Levicorpus spell, and yet you only disarmed me.”

“That counts,” Potter protested, taking long strides to match Tom’s fast pace. “You can’t just make up rules so that they suit you.”

“Can’t I?” he challenged.

“I didn’t even get to pick which half of the bet I wanted,” Potter whined, looking put out. Tom found himself somewhat surprised that the boy implied he’d have chosen to ask the questions over receiving the kiss. He had certainly seemed to enjoy it well enough.

“If the point of the duel was to use the Levicorpus, then by not doing so, you failed,” Tom said. “Therefore,  _ I _ get to decide how to pay the bet.”

“You kissed me,” Potter accused, and Tom shot him a sharp look. 

“And that’s one of my secrets, remember?” Tom asked sourly. “I hardly need you shouting that in the corridors, empty or not. You wanted to practice the charm on me, and I said you could if you disarmed me. You disarmed me, but you didn’t practice the spell. By your own terms, you lost.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Potter complained. “Besides, I didn’t need to practice, I already knew that one.”

“Then why did you want a turn to practice?” Tom asked.

“Well, it’d be funny to see  _ you _ upside down,” he replied. “Also, you could do it  _ non-verbally _ .” 

“Well then, maybe you should’ve practiced it while you had the chance,” Tom retorted, even while knowing that he  _ would _ have found a way to kill Potter if he had, no matter how many years he had to wait for his vengeance.

“You would’ve killed me if I’d done it while the whole class was watching,” Potter said with surprising insight. Tom glanced at him thoughtfully.

“With so many witnesses?”

“You would’ve waited. Probably until you could feed me to a snake.”

“Hmmm. You wound me, Potter.”

The boy only beamed in response, reaching out and taking Tom’s hand. He was relatively quiet, and the corridor remained empty, so Tom just let him be, lost in his own contemplation.

ooo

“Wake up,” Tom hissed, subtly but forcefully elbowing Potter in the side. He heard a soft giggle behind him; a Hufflepuff girl observed his predicament with amusement, and Tom silently swore to unleash Nagini on her someday in the unforeseen future.

Vague promises were all he could make to himself, distracted by Potter  _ drooling _ on the sleeve of his robes. Tom fell still, not wanting to draw attention from the more Slytherin occupants of the class, but fortunately, most of the class resided in the same state as Potter, either asleep, catatonic, or focused on other homework.

Where else could Tom be, but History of Magic, Professor Binns steadily droning on, managing all the intrigue of a half-chewed pencil on a classroom floor.

Normally Tom joined amongst those who employed the hour as a study hall—he’d long since abandoned trying to beguile Binns—but for Potter. He  _ would _ have hexed the idiot, except for the Hufflepuff witness behind him. But even if he couldn’t hex him, he could hardly leave the boy. Acting as a pillow for a messy-haired, love-struck fool was positively degrading.

“Wake up,” he demanded again, as loud as he dared. 

He truly did not want Abraxas’s involvement, or any of the other Slytherins. With Potter acting as the catalyst for a House war, and given the boy’s current attachment to Tom, his status in the house was not under threat, per se, but not as all-encompassing as usual.

Deciding to risk it, he sent a stinging hex, a  _ strong _ one, at the boy next to him.

“Ow,” Potter yelped loudly, jumping and causing his chair to scrape loudly across the floor.

The outcry drew attention from the rest of the class, much to Tom’s frustration. He held perfectly still as Professor Binns blinked at them, before resuming his unenthused mantra, at just a slightly different pitch than before. His classmates sent a few curious glances, but lost interest quickly, the monotonous lesson lulling them almost unknowingly back into their stupors.

“You’re a Slytherin. You shouldn’t be napping like a Gryffindor,” Tom said under his breath, to which Potter looked pointedly at a snoring Avery a few seats down.

Tom clenched his teeth and took a breath. The situation tested his temper to its limits, but he impressed himself again and again with his own self-control. The boy’s possession of all his limbs and mental faculties certainly wasn’t attributed to any credit of Potter’s own.

“Are you really going to use  _ Avery _ as your paradigm for Slytherin?” Tom asked derisively. If anyone should be viewed as an example, it should be  _ him _ . As the Heir, he took Potter’s obstinacy as a personal affront.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be asleep if you didn’t keep levitating me onto the floor last night,” Potter muttered, burying his head in his arms, sending his papers into a haphazard mess across the table.

A few of them scattered across Tom’s notes, and his jaw ticked with the effort of holding back his entire repertoire of dark magic. It vexed him enough that Potter had continually snuck into his bed, but he must have a death wish to speak about it in public.

“Just keep off of me,” he snapped, the words coming out harsher than intended.

Perhaps even his self-control could only take so much, although his frustration prevented him from even thinking of a way that he could have sweetened his request. He’d just have to hope that Potter wouldn’t start wailing apologies. The boy’s eagerness to please had lessened since the first day or two, but that didn’t mean he’d returned to normal by any definition.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m awake,” Potter grumbled, sitting back up and slouching in his chair. Tom hid a grimace of disgust at his posture.

Not ten minutes later, Potter fell lopsided in his seat, head bobbing gently. The motion grew so irritating that when Potter’s head finally came to a rest on Tom’s shoulder again, he didn’t shake him off, if only to stop the bobbing.

Only twenty minutes of the class remained and he didn’t want to cause another scene. For his plan to restore his reputation, he needed to draw as little attention as possible this day and the next.

A wet spot had appeared on his shoulder, the boy’s lips parted slightly. Being right next to Tom’s ear, his heavy puffs of breath were audible, and his glasses dug into Tom’s arm.

Mercifully, the Hufflepuff girl seemed to have dozed off, so Tom considered feeding Potter to Nagini instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear from you! Thanks for reading. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! :)

“Tom, are you aw-”

“No,” said Tom, resisting the urge to open his eyes. No reason to give Potter any encouragement.

“...Asleep? Great!” Potter said brightly, dropping into Tom’s bed and bouncing the mattress. He opened his eyes, because even if the boy was far too love-struck to attack him, it just wasn’t  _ natural _ to assume that.

“Go to bed, Pot- Harry,” Tom said, not ready to have the argument about names. Again. 

“I am in bed,” Potter said cheekily. Tom idly contemplated a bloody murder, but he didn’t want to mess up his sheets. The house elves wouldn’t come until morning, and they were probably obligated to report dismembered students to the headmaster. 

“Go to  _ your _ bed, Harry,” he said, not knowing why he bothered. The boy wouldn’t go unless he used magical means.

True to form, Potter only burrowed further under the blankets. At least he’d brought over his own pillow. Tom reached for his wand so that he could levitate the boy out, and maybe give him a few boils as well. 

Potter caught his wrist before he reached his wand, and Tom glared at him. He resisted the urge to pull; Potter was stronger than his scrawny form would suggest, and Tom refused to do anything so undignified as wrestle like a muggle. 

Potter hesitated, and then Tom  _ did _ start to struggle when the boy pulled out his own wand. The boy only cast a quick silencing charm, hastily putting away his wand before the struggle could escalate. Tom fell still.

He placed his lips right at Tom’s ear, and whispered skin against skin, “My mother was a muggleborn.”

Tom jerked away and looked at him with wide eyes.

“You shouldn’t be so careless with that knowledge,” he said in a carefully measured tone.

While Potter having a muggleborn parent failed to surprise him, the fact that it was the mother  _ did _ surprise him. This implied that Harry  _ was _ born out of wedlock; a scandal, especially given Charlus’s engagement to Dorea Black.

“You won’t tell,” Potter said. “Your father was a muggle.”

Tom froze. Although he had expected it, he disliked someone knowing so much; the boy had already shown that he’d done a fair amount of research on the Gaunt side of the family, so it simply meant that Potter hadn’t skimped his research halfway. He let himself breathe, reminding himself that he had him under oath to never share his secrets. 

“How much do you know?” he asked. 

Potter looked uncertain, so Tom reached out a deliberate hand, stroking down his cheekbone. Only a few centimeters separated their faces, and to enhance the effect, Tom trailed his thumb across his lips, oddly gratified when the boy’s breath stuttered.

“It’s about me, isn’t it?” he whispered with poisonous allure. “Tell me. What do you know?”

“Your father was a muggle,” Potter repeated dazedly, enraptured. “Um. I know...your mother had him under a love potion.”

Silence.

“What?” Tom asked abruptly, his voice too loud and harsh, causing the boy to wince. He jerked his hand away. “ _ What do you mean? _ ”

“You didn’t know?” he asked, bewildered. “But...didn’t you hear that your mother had taken him? That’s why he ran away.”

“My  _ father _ ,” Tom spat viciously. “Abandoned her when he found out she was a witch!”

“No,” Potter denied with alarm. “He left her when she stopped feeding him the love potion.”

“Lies,” he hissed. This was wrong; Potter  _ lied _ , how would this stranger, this  _ outsider _ , know more than him, anyway? “You’re lying. Muggles are afraid of our power, of our superiority, and he was just the same!”

“Well, he was a bit of an arse, yeah,” Potter agreed. “But he was under a love potion the whole time. He should’ve stuck around for you, but your mother shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t about the magic, it was about how she used it.”

Tom shook with rage, because how  _ dare _ this boy pretend to know any of this, to make up such twisted lies.

...But if it contained even a drop of truth, he had to know.

“Where did you hear this?” Tom managed an almost civil tone, speaking through his teeth.

Potter hesitated. “I saw...Morfin.”

No, that was impossible. He’d killed his parents over the summer, and framed Morfin just after. Potter had come to Hogwarts at the start of this fall term. Besides that, his uncle had never mentioned anything about a love potion to  _ him _ . Yet, there was no other way that the boy could know as much as he did, and Tom didn’t sense that Potter lied. 

“Why would you speak to him?” Tom demanded. "We had yet to meet.”

“I just...saw him,” Potter said, looking nervous.

_ But the parseltongue _ . Morfin might have kept information from him, given that he’d immediately recognized Tom’s similar appearance to ‘that Muggle’. Maybe he would’ve spoken to the boy,  _ quiet Harry Potter _ , who shared their gift for speaking to snakes. Maybe he’d been ranting to himself, thinking that nobody who overheard would be able to understand.

“Did you see him at his trial?” Tom asked, and Potter looked surprised that he’d guessed, but nodded. Perhaps his reticence had been because of his reluctance to speak ill of Tom’s relatives.

It made sense. It would explain Potter’s initial interest in him, and then the boy’s fascination had likely turned into infatuation at some point...and then he’d spilled the love potion, and brought himself to Tom’s attention. The story pieced itself together; Potter just happened to be at the right place, at the right time, speaking the right language.

Of course, he still didn’t know how the boy had inherited the trait. And he didn’t know anything about Potter’s parents, either; he’d obviously tried to research him when the boy had attached himself to him, but the House of Potter had covered up the scandal well. 

He swallowed his inner unrest, suppressing his thirst to cast dark magic and spill blood, and he asked, because he recognized the opportunity as too perfect to ignore. 

And so he heard the tale of a little boy in the cupboard under the stairs. Potter refused to give many details, seemingly more out of shame than distrust, but Tom managed to coax out a few secrets, just barely drawn out in sleepy mumbles. A madman had murdered his parents, his relatives were muggles of the worst sort, and they’d never told him about the Wizarding World even after his most powerful bouts of accidental magic.

Tom picked out a murmur, saying that the rants over his cursed freakishness had almost been worth it, because  _ Tom should have seen it when he set a giant snake on Dudley at the zoo. _

Tom’s lips twitched. 

His anger faded into a vague simmering, more thoughtful than wrathful by the time Potter dozed off completely. It didn’t stop him from levitating the boy to the floor in the early morning, but feeling magnanimous, he let Potter drag one of the blankets with him.

ooo

The next morning he put his scheming to good use. 

In the end, it was far too easy. He didn’t even need an alibi. Who would expect the Head Boy to sabotage his own House’s Quidditch team? He’d never even expressed any interest in the sport.

A short, harmless conversation about Quidditch remained the only evidence of his crime, and he doubted that Crockett would admit to eavesdropping in the first place. Not exceptionally adept, he doubted that the captain would even make the connection at all.  

And if Potter  _ won _ , Crockett would probably  _ thank _ Tom for his manipulations. 

After the match, that was. In an hour he’d be far too busy panicking.

Tom allowed himself a small, terrifying smile, stowing his wand away as he abandoned the body to the fifth floor corridor. Slytherin’s reserve seeker already laid on the seventh floor bathroom, damningly close to the entrance of Gryffindor tower. He wondered vaguely if Dumbledore might know to suspect him, but he had no clear motivation for this. Regardless, the old man could never  _ prove _ his guilt. 

Tom briskly walked back to the common room, dropping his Disillusionment charm and slipping in unnoticed. He would have attracted more attention if he’d maintained it; nothing sparked a Slytherin’s curiosity quite like secrecy. As it was, the lounge buzzed with genteel excitement and tension, the upcoming match against Gryffindor on everyone’s minds, even more so than usual with the recent strain on the House relations. 

Slipping upstairs, he found Potter where he had left him, put out with a light Sleeping Drought. Someone truly determined to wake the boy could have done so, but Potter would have been far too drowsy to hunt down Tom. He’d learned better than to underestimate the other student, especially when it came to Potter’s determination to spend every waking moment in his presence. It was the relatively harmless part of Tom’s scheme; the drought should wear off within the next half-hour or so, plenty of time before the Slytherin-Gryffindor match. 

So Tom pulled out his book and waited. 

It was obvious when they found the bodies. He could hear voices, not quite shouting, but sharp enough to carry through the stone hallways. He’d left the door partly open, so he’d have warning. Potter twitched at the sound, blinking sleepily awake and shivering a bit, his sheets having slipped off, providing no protection from the dungeon’s cool air. 

It was quite cold in the dungeons if unaccustomed to it. The thought brought to mind Potter’s dementors, and his continued curiosity of when Potter had encountered them. He said the cold reminded him of them, and the specificity implied a physical memory of the creatures. Perhaps he’d encountered them at the same time he’d run into Morfin, at his trial.

_ Three and a half seconds _ , Tom mused absently. Potter truly did make the oddest comments.

“-hospital wing,” he made out from the faint echoes. “Gryffindor...Fifth floor...Can’t play...”

“Tom?” mumbled Potter, reaching up to rub his eyes, displacing his glasses as he did so. Tom made the unpleasant realization that he’d grown far too accustomed to Potter’s waking face for his tastes. 

“Hmm,” he responded inattentively. 

He pretended to focus on his book, when in reality focusing on the voices down the hall, trying to make out the words. Either way, he ignored Potter. The voices grew louder, more agitated. 

The Quidditch match started after lunch, and the meal began in fifteen minutes. It would not be suspicious at all to head downstairs right now, and perhaps Potter’s appearance would help prompt Crockett into realizing the possible solution to his dilemma.  

“It’s half past eleven,” Tom said, flicking his wand to mark the page of his book and sliding it closed. “Shall we head down to the Hall?”

“It’s that late already?” Harry mumbled into his pillow. It wouldn’t do for him to look too drowsy to play. Tom sent a mild Aguamenti charm at his face.

“Hey,” the boy spluttered indignantly, wiping his face with his palm. With a huff, he took off his glasses, wiping the lenses on his sleeve. 

“Come along, Harry,” he said lightly, opening the door and holding it open with mocking courtliness, offering a winning smile.

With a casual flick of the wand, he deflected Potter’s retaliatory jet of water. He didn’t bother reciprocating, being in a rather good mood. He’d had the chance to practice some particularly vicious curses against the Slytherin seekers.

Really, Potter should be grateful, since as long as he played well, this would help him as well. 

Slytherin had been watching him warily since his standoff against Tom in Defense Against the Dark Arts. He’d have to find an opportunity to have a public rematch against the boy, so he could win and reclaim his status. Still, at Potter’s level, no other student would steal the title any time soon, and upon reconsideration, Tom decided he could make use of his defeat. The boy was clearly skilled, so when Tom fought him, he could take the opportunity to show off his own abilities. He had few chances to demonstrate the extent of his talent.

And if Potter was a competent Quidditch player, his esteem would rise even more, and his association with Tom might actually prove beneficial instead of a disgrace.

No sooner had they reached the bottom of the stairs, that the others bombarded them with questions.

“Tom, you’re a decent flier, aren’t you?” Andrew Snowyowl, one of the team’s Chasers, asked with poorly concealed desperation. 

He was only a second-year, less aware of Tom’s infamous indifference towards the sport. He tended to lose himself in Transfiguration textbooks, too engrossed with the subject to pay much mind to anything aside from his reading, except for Quidditch.

“Tom wouldn’t,” Neil Lament, the other Chaser, waved away the foolishness. “He probably doesn’t care enough about the game to know basic strategy, anyway.” 

“Who cares about strategy?” Mulciber demanded, the beater of the team, his Quidditch status his one saving grace, given the atrocity of his grades. “At this point, we’ll be lucky to find someone who can stay on a broom.”

The rest of Slytherin whispered in aggravated hisses, their planned vengeance against Gryffindor growing more and more ruthless. The heated discussion of possible candidates and bloody revenge intensified.

Tom didn’t want to have to point out Potter, since that would, however subtly, tie him to the incident. Fortunately, although not the sharpest of students, Crockett remembered the idle conversation by the fire from the day before last.

“Potter! You play Quidditch, don’t you?” Crockett demanded, forgetting that he’d eavesdropped on the conversation and shouldn’t know as much. One could only expect his brief moment of acuity to stretch so far, Tom supposed.

“Er,” Potter said, startled at being drawn into the conversation so suddenly. He’d been left at the outskirts of the conversation until then. “Yeah, a bit.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s any good,” Lament said snidely. 

“We’re using him,” Crockett announced without further ado, to several startled and indignant squawks. Tom stepped back, observing the crowd and listening to the cacophony with impassive poise. He could appreciate Crockett’s obstinacy as he held firm under the barrage.

“You can’t be serious!”

“Potter will watch Riddle more than the Snitch!”

“Why not use Prince? He can stay on a broom, and he’s of the  _ right sort _ .”

Tom eyed Potter curiously as he flushed at the insult, full of indignant and righteous rage. Tempted to watch the impending outburst, he acknowledged it probably for the best that Malfoy spoke up before the boy could insult the entirety of Slytherin so rashly that even Tom couldn’t save him from the fall out. While he’d hardly bemoan the loss for long, it would mean that he’d have to cut ties with him, and now that he’d invested in Potter, the lost time would irk him.

“Well, we shouldn’t be too hasty,” Abraxas drawled lazily, cutting through the chatter. “The House of Potter is an old line. As a Slytherin, illegitimate son or not, he’s at least half of our kind...I say, let him prove he can overcome his dirty blood, and if he turns out to be nothing more than an impotent spawn trying to lay claim to an old name, we take care of him  _ then _ . We are a generous lot, are we not? We can provide chances to those beneath us.”

Abraxas tolerated half-bloods, so long as they were useful to him, and so long as they didn’t marry into old blood and pollute the pure lines. Still, it was unusual for him to voice any form of ‘moderacy’ in public, and Tom eyed him shrewdly, wondering what the blond had to gain.

He received his answer when Malfoy gave him a subtle nod after his speech; he had noticed Tom’s intention to collect Potter, it seemed. He’d have to check that the memory charm still held. 

“I’m not ‘beneath’ you,” Potter’s growl snapped him out of his musings. “Any of you. But if you want me to prove myself,  _ fine _ . I’ll do it, just so you know that I can outfly any of you, which makes me wonder about your so-called ‘pure’ superiority.”

The retort received angry hisses, but Tom didn’t intervene; if Potter couldn’t back up his words, he’d suffer the wrath of Slytherin House no matter what proclamations he made now. 

“Go change, Potter,” Crockett snapped, when the protests started up again, although more reserved now that the Malfoy heir had spoken. Instead they whined at Potter’s ‘ungratefulness’ in the face of Abraxas’s ‘generosity’. 

Potter looked mutinous, fists clenched, but after a moment spun on his heel, heading back to their dorm room.    
Tom watched from a distance, smiling at the malevolent tidings that whispered through the corridors. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear whatever you're thinking, including critiques.
> 
> **MY REQUEST FOR HELP:**
> 
> **I have the next 9 chapters already written. The problem is, even though I have a very vague guideline for after Harry's potion wears off, and I've already written some- I lack any motivation.**
> 
> **So if you have anything you want to see- feel free to mention it in the comments. Maybe it'll give me some inspiration. I'm just bored with my own ideas.**
> 
> **I'm also watching Yuuri On Ice if you want to prompt me for that. Or any of my fandoms. I just need new ideas, I've bored myself. Basically.**
> 
> **Be warned: I like writing angst more than fluff. But I will take either.**
> 
> **I'd credit you if I did use your suggestion, of course.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! Whaaat, I updated within 6 months this time? Yes, yes I did. Come on, people, that's PROGRESS! Focus on the positive. Yes. Haha. Plz
> 
> (I'm sorry)

Potter won, of course. Tom didn’t much appreciate the sport for the value in and of itself; rather, he understood the value in that he could use the investment of the other students to his advantage. Despite his lack of appreciation for the skill, however, even he could recognize that Potter’s win had been impressive.

At first he’d been concerned that the love potion would ruin his gamble, since no sooner had Potter taken to the air that he’d sought out Tom in the stands. Once he’d found him, he gave a quick smile, nearly missing the starting cue and certainly not watching the release of the snitch. The action immediately triggered mutterings in the Slytherin stands, but In the end, Tom privately wondered if the love potion hadn’t helped them after all, what with the boy’s determination to impress him.

Of course, that would imply that love had given strength where sheer dedication and skill had not, and Tom scoffed at the very idea, but he supposed that love might be supplementary to the two. Potter certainly had both, at least on the Quidditch field.

The match had ended in a spectacular sixty foot dive, Potter and Cormac—the Gryffindor seeker—neck-to-neck until Cormac pulled up at the last possible moment.

Tom had been certain that Potter would lose control and the impact would likely kill him—he surprised himself with his own disappointment at the prospect—but then Potter pulled up, _leapt_ from his broom, caught the snitch during his free-fall, and went rolling through the grass dizzyingly fast, out-of-control and painful, but not lethal.

Potter rolled to a stop, lying on his back and panting, and the stands gaped when he held up and arm, a glint of fluttering gold in his grasp.

“Potter...Potter has caught the Snitch!” the announcer blurted incredulously, the sputtering a far cry from his usual fluent blabber. “The victory goes to...to Slytherin!”

Tom watched with disbelief, the adrenaline of the moment fading, and he winced at the tension in his shoulders. When Potter had dived, he’d straightened up from where he’d been leaning on the railing, heart beating fast at the scene, wondering if he’d inadvertently be responsible for the boy’s death. Upon the return of his composure, he leaned back on the railing, giving a harsh, disbelieving laugh.

The boy was a complete _idiot._

The Gryffindors gawked in a shocked silence when the Slytherins broke ranks, starting up a chant of _“Potter! Potter! Potter!_ ”

How hypocritical they were, when mere hours ago they had been disparaging the boy’s blood and status. It just showed how little one could trust human nature, how little ‘love’ and ‘promises’ meant in the long run. Emotions were fleeting; power and fear much more powerful assets.

Madam Jones, the mediwitch, kept Potter’s housemates from storming him, although her shouts were lost to the chaos. Tom watched his House’s lack of decorum with distaste; Quidditch was one of the few times that its dignity lapsed, a part of the reason he so disliked attending the matches.

He wondered idly if Potter had broken anything, but he supposed that so long as it wasn’t his neck or spine, it wouldn’t affect him, so he dismissed the thought.

ooo

After this, Tom’s plans had many facets. He’d been prepared for Potter’s loss, as well; if he had failed to catch the snitch, he’d made plans to cut ties with the boy and use the impending hatred towards Gryffindor to distract from his association with the idiot.

Now that Potter had won, however, he had broader goals. He had to admit he also received some personal satisfaction in knowing that _he_ was so influential and favored, so competent, that he could pull another boy to the top, able to support two where others struggled to ensure their own survival alone in the venomous social sphere of the Slytherins.

Potter’s esteem had risen exponentially, eyed resentfully by the House of Lions, and viewed enviously by all the rest. MacDougal had escalated in his rage, often hexing the boy when he wasn’t looking, or cursing his things. Potter had a new array of bruises on his arms from where he’d fallen victim to a tripping jynx a few hours ago. 

A juvenile prank, but even Tom felt surprised at the boldness of the Gryffindor perpetrators when they did so in Potion’s class. Potter had received quite the nasty collection of boils from another cauldron he’d overturned. Thankfully, it had not been another love potion, and this one had been incomplete at the time. It had resulted in only surface burns, instead of vanishing his inner organs as a finished potion would have intended. 

Tom had also seen notes which hissed ‘mudblood’ and ‘whore’, just glimpses before Potter managed to burn them with a flick of his wand and a scowl. Tom did not intervene.

In contrast, the Slytherins dangled their new talent in front of professors, students, and each other alike, all of them trying to fall in with Potter’s good graces. The Slytherin dorms were no longer a safe respite for either of them. It had only been a few hours when Harry decided he’d had enough, dragging Tom to the secluded corridor on the seventh floor, the window cubby where he’d discovered that the boy spoke Parseltongue. 

Or rather, he _tried_ to drag along Tom, but ended up trailing after him, because Tom didn’t get _dragged_ along by anyone.

“I never should’ve agreed,” Potter bemoaned, crawling into the cubby and collapsing next to the window, resting his head on the glass.

“Status is everything in Slytherin,” Tom said idly. “Think of the favors and luxuries you can receive in return.”

He perched lightly on the edge, swinging his legs gracefully into a casual sprawl. He made sure to sit closer to the end, so that he could escape Potter if necessary, and prevent the boy from fleeing if he tried the same. He slipped a book out of his bag, balancing it deftly on his knees.

“ _In return_ ,” Potter emphasized. “Excuse me if I’m reluctant to ask for favors of people who might very well ask for my first born child _in return_.”

“You’re being absurd,” Tom dismissed the comment. “A Slytherin would never ask for the first born child of a _halfblood_.”

“Not you too,” Harry complained, but he inched closer to Tom, as if he couldn’t resist. He leaned his head on his shoulder. “Besides, they might ask for the kid so that they could sacrifice him on the full moon or something. I can’t see them using one of their own oh-so-special pureblood brats.”

“Morbid, Potter,” Tom said, somewhat bemused. “But a newborn baby would more likely be used in a sacrificial ritual on the _new_ moon.”

“You _would_ know,” the boy accused, letting out a huff. He burrowed his face in his sleeve, pressing a kiss to Tom’s collarbone. “And it’s _Harry_.”

Disregarding the sentiment, he tried to edge Potter off his shoulder, but the moron misinterpreted his gesture, taking hold of Tom’s hand with both hands and cradling his forearm in a hug.

Tom glared, but in the end ignored the gesture, then halted as he started to turn the page of his book, appalled by his own apathy. When had Potter’s antics become an indignity he saw fit to _ignore_?

Yet the lack of witnesses made retaliation unnecessary, and he despaired of ruining his rather good mood, not wanting to put up with the boy’s rambling apologies and confessions. He let the action slide, even while uneasily examining his own impassivity. He didn’t even regard Potter’s touch with disgust or discomfort anymore, resigned exasperation taking its place.

His eyes flickered to the side, sensing the boy watching him, and froze when Potter took the opportunity to slip his hand up to Tom’s neck and pull him down into a kiss.

He had no particular goal, or even rage, to drive the action, yet alarmingly, he felt no disgust or unease, except for the unease he experienced at _not_ feeling anything about Potter’s hands at his neck.

Still, pulling away somehow felt like giving Potter some sort of victory, beginning a battle of conflicting thoughts which stalled his reaction.

On one hand, how _dare_ this person touch him; but no, he’d gone through that line of thought before. Potter dared because he was drunk on a love potion. That whole approach was rather dull and uninspired.

On the other hand, pulling away meant that he did _not_ view Potter’s potion-induced infatuation with proper detachment; he gave the boy the power to unnerve him, when a kiss should hold no significance. If he pulled away, he admitted that he felt something—something other than cool calculability or fury—instead, he would be admitting that his lack of alarm and disgust...

Well, it alarmed him. He abhorred the contradictions, since if he felt alarm at all, surely it counted. But no, the _source_ of alarm mattered, and Potter’s fingers trailing over his neck caused him no disgust or concern; he was, however, concerned with that lack of concern. Circular reasoning that suffocated him with its ill logic.

In the end, the second line of thought won out, the first having been revisited and worn out too many times in the past five days. Potter dared to touch him because he stupidly spilled a love potion. It didn’t matter if Tom tried to ‘teach him his place’ while under the influence of the Mollis Caritate; he would keep coming back, and _failing_ to teach him his place would damage Tom’s reputation more than not caring enough to do so.

So Tom let go of his book and pulled the boy closer.

His perception of Potter had changed since their kiss yesterday. In the space of twenty-four hours, the boy had proven he had a talent to complement his dueling skills, even one so useless as Quidditch. He’d found out about his past, so eerily similar to his own, an orphaned half-blood like him who’d been scorned for his magic. They even looked something alike.

He wondered if this was incestuous, since as far as he knew, the ability to speak to snakes ran through bloodlines, and the thought amused him. The boy had insisted they lacked any relation, and he wondered if he’d lied because of his crush. He found the thought spurred him on more than it repulsed him; a relationship with another man would make Ms. Cole recoil, and revolt the cleric who came by to preach how _God_ would save them from their starved, hopeless lives. A relationship with someone who might share his blood?

Tom’s lips twitched at imagining their screams of horror, crying devilry whilst he killed him with the very ‘freakishness’ they so despised.

Tom felt Potter’s lips turn up in response to his own macabre smile, blissfully unaware of the true reason behind Tom’s pleasure. His smile widened.

Grasping Potter’s wrists, he used them as leverage to push closer, finding his actions more instinctive and natural than the kiss from yesterday. He pulled away when Potter’s breathing grew too harsh, and found to his surprise that his own breath had quickened, although not nearly as much.

He remembered enjoying the boy’s lips on his neck yesterday, and he tugged on the nape of Potter’s neck, encouraging the action. The boy obliged, and Tom shuddered, losing momentary control when his tongue licked a stripe just below his ear. He resented abandoning even the slightest command over his own actions, but he held Potter in place, deciding that his pleasure and authority over the situation justified the briefest lapse.

Yet the unpredictability made the argument both all the more valid and all the more void, as Potter chose in that moment to scrape his skin with his teeth, and Tom’s fingers tightened convulsively in his hair. Potter moaned, slipping between Tom’s legs so that he straddled him, and _oh_ , Tom suddenly realized why others found this enjoyable.

Tom pulled away then, because he needed to know that he _could_ , that he hadn’t turned into one of his mindless, imbecilic housemates who let their hormones control them.

Harry looked at him, lips wet, and Tom remembered them on his neck.

He closed his eyes, but that almost made the memory _worse_ , the other sensations stronger with the lack of sight.

“Tom?” Potter asked uncertainly, and Tom searched for an excuse. With the boy’s dazed, stupid expression, it didn’t require much creativity. It really did have an uncanny resemblance to the Imperius Curse.

“You took a love potion,” he said, disgusted by his own unsteady voice. “I...I apologize, Harry, that was terribly remiss of me.”

A lie, perhaps, but partially true in its own way. He should avoid any relations with the boy until after its effects had worn off, not because of any personal ethics on his part, but rather because while attending Hogwarts, he couldn’t afford anyone questioning his morality, much less Potter, once the potion wore off and he remembered what they’d done.

Tom focused, reopening his book, tensing when Potter leaned on him again, a mess of black hair brushing his jawline.

He stared at the pages, unseeing, wondering what was wrong with him, that Potter's touch had begun to _please_ him.

ooo

Potter crept into his bed, the mattress dipping as he did, an arm reaching out to lightly wrap around his waist. Tom shoved him off.

He fell asleep shortly after he heard Potter's quiet snores, and he awoke the next morning to the boy clutching at his night shirt again, pressed against Tom’s side. He levitated him off the bed, dropping him a few feet off the ground.

He listened with cruel amusement to the boy's complaining, feeling an odd satisfaction at knowing _he’d_ caused that reaction, knowing that _he_ had that much control over Potter, and that the boy would cling to him anyway. 

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed; breakfast started in an hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say...
> 
> You guys spent so much time writing responses and trying to motivate me last chapter. And like, since we're talking about my depressed ass, the fact that it actually worked enough for me to edit this chapter is, like... whoa what
> 
> like, even my own future being on the line can't motivate me to study lol amiright
> 
> So anyway, thank you! It honestly baffles me that people take the time to even write a "this was cool!" or such, when there's not much incentive to do so. And then the longer responses just blow me away completely. How are you guys so thoughtful. It honestly confuses me. In a good way.
> 
> I hope you guys are all doing well :) (Also, the new YOI video of Yuri's exhibition AMIRIGHT?!)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saludos desde Argentina. Sorry if this chapter isn't up to par and slow coming, I've been abroad for a long time. If anyone has suggestions for places I should see here, hit me up!

Potter disappeared after their Sunday breakfast, and Tom didn't bother to look for him, enjoying the respite from the constant company. He sat in bed, the sole occupant for the first time in almost a week, leaning against the frame while he read Moste Potente Potions.

Somehow, he’d forgotten that Potter was not the only person to avoid, or even the most irritating one.

"You do realize that you're causing quite a stir?” Abraxas interrupted his solitude, speaking from the doorway of the dorm. 

Tom carefully turned the page, vaguely entertaining the thought of ordering the blond away without hearing him out. He hadn't bothered to find a more isolated spot this time, knowing that Potter would find him regardless of where he lingered. He should have remembered that Abraxas had taken far too much interest in the whole situation; his lack of foresight now forced a bothersome conversation he needn't yet have. He eyed the blond over the cover of his dark arts book, one of the more illegal ones that he refrained from using around Potter.

“There's whispers that he might be the more powerful of the two of you, and that’s why you indulge him,” Abraxas persisted, not needing to clarify to whom he referred to with ‘him’. 

When some people grew angry, they vibrated with rage, an explosion of energy as they lashed out. Tom, on the other hand, grew eerily still. His every movement became deliberate and graceful, a sharp clarity that held until he found precisely the correct moment to snap. 

"You do realize," Tom spoke, his voice terribly soft. "That anyone who dares to question my authority will be left with none of their own? Potter has proven competent, but he will follow me, as he should."

Still, he knew this matter was to become even more pertinent as the potion’s end approached. Potter’s current absence and apparent willingness to separate did make Tom wonder if today served as the last of the potion’s potency. 

"I respect your position, of course," Malfoy said smoothly as he approached slowly, trailing his fingers over the mahogany wood of the nightstand. "But others fear you might be...slipping. They’re concerned that Potter will not respect your position, once he escapes the influence of the Mollis Caritate. They fear inner conflict. Preposterous, if you ask me, that their loyalty is so fickle after your mastery of the House for the past three years."

"Yes...it may be time to warn them of the dangers of forgetting the true extent of my power," Tom mused quietly, dark irritation staining his thoughts. Potter had proven his proficiency, but for the others to dare assume that Tom had yielded to another as a result-

"There's one other concern flitting through the minds of the lesser cast," Abraxas murmured with barely concealed apprehension, his eyes carefully lowered. 

He was doing Tom a favor—or rather, a duty—by imparting the rumors which others would not dare whisper in his presence. Tom acknowledged the necessity of knowing the popular opinion, but for something that even Abraxas felt disinclined to share meant that Tom truly wouldn't appreciate the recent gossip. It meant that he feared that Tom would take out his subsequent fury on the messenger, a legitimate concern: but Abraxas also knew he would suffer a far worse fallout if he failed his task. 

"Oh?" asked Tom.

"Others are concerned that you may be...attached to the boy," Abraxas said at last, and Tom’s lips twitched into a frightening smile.

"Are they?" he asked softly, and the blond gave a small cringe at the dangerous undertone. 

"You've been rather tolerant of the boy's condition," he pointed out warily, clearly concerned with Tom's simmering temper.

"I see," he said with languid contemplation. 

He supposed it wasn't a terrible problem, although this did little to settle his ill temper. The rumors would have only caused him inconvenience if he had felt attachment, since others would try to target Potter to manipulate him. Given the inaccuracy of the speculation, however, the worst he'd experience was a perceived weakness, yet he could exploit any such misconception on their part. 

He felt nothing for the boy. The only foreseeable problem resulted from his desire to recruit Potter for his cause, which meant that his protection of the boy could be misinterpreted as affirmation of this supposed weakness. 

"Potter has proven himself a competent duelist, at the very least," Abraxas mused, emboldened by Tom's apparent calm. "You'll hardly need to hold his hand. They're idiots, if you ask me. As long as you can keep his loyalty after the potion, I'd think that the recent sentiments are nothing you can't use to your advantage. Potter's allegiance is an asset. He successfully proved that he's overcome any taint that might be in his blood, and that he can make his own name for himself regardless of his illegitimate status."

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Abraxas,” Tom stated mildly, twirling his wand absently between lithe fingers. 

“Of course,” the blond gave a predatory smile, giving a polite half-bow. “I’ll just dismiss myself then, shall I? I do apologize for the interruption.”

Tom flicked his fingers dismissively, approving the request, and Malfoy stole quietly out of the room. 

It seemed he couldn’t escape Potter, even when Potter himself had disappeared, the echo of absence reverberating even more in any empty space he left behind. 

Tom felt a swelling hatred at the persistence of the boy in his thoughts, in his conversations, and he rose abruptly to his feet, casting an Entrail-Expelling curse on the spider crawling across Potter’s bedframe. 

He’d barely refrained from calling back Abraxas and using the blond as human practice, when Lestrange came bursting in, babbling about—what else—Harry Potter.

ooo

As Tom took off down the hallway, robes swirling around him, he couldn’t help but remember how Potter had tugged his robes to hide the bruises, or the tripping jinxes Tom had pretended not to notice, not wanting to be more involved with Potter than he already was. Children bullied, and when they grew up, they still did as adults: it was the way of the world. Tom had dealt with his own tormentors by himself, and had instead become the tormentor. If Potter wanted to avoid such situations, he could very well manage on his own. Tom had no interest in interceding when he’d already fought to claw his way to the top.

As such, when Tom found him, he thought it might be best to turn around and feign ignorance when he eventually heard about the fight. Four Gryffindors surrounded the boy, one of them MacDougal, and Potter had been slashed from his collarbone to his waist, the blood running down his skin in sporadic rivers, visible through his torn robes. Tom recognized the work of a mild Severing Charm. 

Potter was holding his own, but only just, and the opposing hexes grew more vicious as a result. 

It simply lacked subtlety. The Gryffindors—and Potter for that matter—were all nearing the age of majority. Yet they still squabbled in duels in the hallway, like the children in the orphanage who would wrestle for each other’s food as soon as the matron turned her back, or shove at each other so they tripped at another outstretched leg.

It was too bold, too reckless, and Tom didn’t want the fight on his record. As Head Boy, he should find a teacher, perhaps put up a few shielding charms. 

But then the duel escalated.

Perhaps the original intention had been to humiliate Potter, catch him off guard and outnumber him, and press the advantage to use a few hexes and embarrassing spells when he couldn’t fight back. Enough for the Gryffindor’s to feel that they’d fought to preserve their house’s dignity (as though it had any), but with spells mild enough that it would only result in detentions and a stern scolding if caught. 

They likely didn’t expect Potter to fight back so effectively, against four nearly full-fledged wizards. In the heat of the moment, in the panic of a plan going awry, the atmosphere shifted with desperation to salvage the situation.

Tom noticed the spells turn nastier, and yet he still did nothing, hidden in the shadows. 

“Confringo,” MacDougal yelled, a streak of flame he probably expected Potter to deflect, and which he likely would have done, had he not been busy sending a counter-curse at MacDougal’s Gryffindor companion, and dodging a Relashio from the other. As he ducked away from the rope, the fire that would have caught him in the stomach caught him high across the cheekbones instead. 

Potter gasped and staggered back, his hands hovering over his face but not touching the tender, angry skin, some of it still burning and blackening painfully as he observed.

Potter’s eyes were tearing up, but he lifted his wand unsteadily to defend himself, and then he caught sight of Tom. 

“Tom?” he rasped, looking confused at the sight of him, and Tom realized it would look terrible if he acted as only a bystander now.

The situation could be used to further ingratiate himself with the boy, however. As Abraxas had so keenly pointed out, the potion wouldn’t last forever, and would likely wear off any day now. Acting the part of rescuer would certainly work in his favor. It might cause problems with the staff, but it would give Potter reason to trust him, undeniable hard evidence. 

Besides, at this point, he had the excuse he needed to intervene without consequence. He could insist that he’d had no time to fetch a teacher; the burn across half of the boy’s face would likely blind him in one eye if it wasn’t treated immediately. With four-on-one odds, and Potter clearly injured, he might very well receive an award for intervening. 

Of course, Potter had done considerable damage to the other boys, his competency as a duelist obvious, but the boy was soft. His hexes did no permanent injury, unlike the Confringo. Boils handicapped the redhead on the right, scattered up his arm and likely continuing on his chest, and one of the others had been silenced with a Sticking Charm to the mouth. Another seemed to have been hit by a vindictive Stinging Hex, and MacDougal himself had a nasty bruise beneath his right eye.

“Together,” Tom said sharply, lifting his own wand to the Gryffindors. Harry stared at him for a long moment, before nodding shakily.

Coldly, Tom channeled some of his earlier rage, and snapped. Tom knew he must refrain from using anything particularly damaging, sticking to Disarming Spells and light attacks, at least at first. Even injured, Potter managed to hold his own, but he clearly suffered, and Tom grew impatient. 

So although he kept his curses mild, Tom allowed some of his power to slip. One of the boys, a mousy blond boy with a crooked nose, screamed horrifically as an enormous snake Tom silently conjured began to crush the air out of his lungs. The boy passed out more from fear than actual suffocation, and Tom vanished the snake with another flick of his wand.

“Avis,” shouted Harry, voice twisted in pain, as he took care of another attacker, the one Harry had muted with the Sticking Charm. This one Tom recognized as a Gryffindor Chaser as a flock of furious birds took after him, forcing him to flee down the corridor. 

Another Gryffindor laid at the other end of the corridor, the apparent victim of a stunning spell, so Tom took care of MacDougal, the last one standing. He diverted a Bat-Bogey Hex with a flick of his wand, his mouth frowning in distaste. He cast a curse that would trap MacDougal in sleep, nightmares haunting him even while he collapsed. 

MacDougal couldn’t know the countercurse, too unusual, which would be Tom’s justification for using it: it was not a dark spell, but certainly pushed the limits. With a powerful enough caster, one could even choose the nightmare the victim suffered. Tom chose a relatively mild form, so that MacDougal would feel as though spiders, leeches, and centipedes crawled over his skin, a constant jittery feeling. To intensify the impression, the nightmare was of pure darkness: MacDougal would not see the creatures, as long as he slept, he would only feel their constant presence and skittering. Tom hoped he’d stay asleep long enough that the feeling would persist even after he awakened, a phantom reminder.

In the end, with the two of them, the battle actually turned out rather dull, given that Potter had already handicapped all four of them. 

Yes, the whole cleanup proved remarkably easy, so of course when Potter shouted at him to look out, jumped in front of him, and shoved him out of the way, he found himself momentarily wrong-footed. 

He should have expected it. It was such a foolish, noble, almost-Gryffindor sort of thing that Potter would do, if only it wasn’t a cowardly Gryffindor who’d caused the action in the first place. 

The fourth Gryffindor, presumably petrified earlier by Potter, had shot a Conjunctivitis Curse from the floor, having just regained consciousness. Perhaps Potter’s stunning spell had been weaker than intended, given the distraction of his burns.

Potter cried out as he took the curse; Tom quickly sent another petrifying spell at the fourth teenager, not caring that he’d overpowered it. The boy keeled over, staggering into him unbalanced, Tom the only reason he didn’t collapse to the floor.

“Potter,” he said urgently, needing the boy to lift his head so that he could see the extent of the damage. 

The Conjunctivitis Curse could only be healed with the Oculus Potion, but with one of his eyes already badly burned by the Confringo, Tom found himself uncertain of how they’d combine, but he had an unpleasant theory.

“Potter, look at me,” he commanded, the boy trembling and giving no response. “Pott– Harry, look at me!”

When the boy remained unresponsive, breathing heavily in silent sobs, he lost his patience. He used one hand to peel away the boy’s hovering fingers, and the other to tilt up his chin.

The damage was horrific, all blackened and reddened skin, his eyes swelled shut, tears and mucus leaking from the corners, skin wrinkling unnaturally and blood seeping through the cracking wound.

Tom, despite his talent at healing, despite his talent at all magic, didn’t dare try to heal him, or even alleviate the pain. 

“What has happened here?” came an incredulous voice of Headmaster Dippet, and Tom dropped Harry’s chin as though it had burned him as well. 

He tried to let go of the boy’s wrist, but Potter scrambled and clung to his hand desperately, his trembling growing into violent shaking. It looked like he was trying not to cry, not because he had enough presence of mind to care about his dignity, but because the tears likely made the pain worse, the salt stinging the damaged skin.

“Headmaster,” Tom said earnestly, although he felt a flicker of unease when he realized that Dippet stood next to Dumbledore, who eyed him with utmost distrust. “I’ll explain, but Potter needs immediate medical attention. He was hit by a Confringo and Conjunctivitis Curse in quick succession.”

His feigned concern came with unusual naturalness for him, to his surprise, perhaps due to the adrenaline still running through his veins. 

Dippet’s attention quickly diverted with the announcement, but Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on him, unrelenting.

After that, Tom was dragged into many troublesome niceties, not the least because Potter refused to let go of his hand. He couldn’t slip away, not with Dumbledore scrutinizing his every action, and yanking away from someone in such obvious pain would make it so easy for the trickle of doubt to turn into full certainty.

As it was, he’d endured the Hospital Wing for the idiot, listening to jabbering adults and incompetent fools. Slughorn was called at some point, gushing praises about Tom’s ‘heroics’, and Dippet went on a rant about students who performed such a cowardly act, relenting only to thank Tom for his quick thinking.

Tom barely listened; he didn’t have to, any inattention on his part would be credited to concern. In truth, he believed Potter’s injury affected him little. Still, Tom let the boy cling to him, because it cost him nothing but a small inconvenience, and would pay off in the long run. Even if there was permanent damage, the gamble could very well prove worth it.

“Thanks to Tom’s timely intervention-”

“Can you imagine? It could have been much worse, if not for Tom-”

“I always knew Tom would grow into a fine wizard-”

A large part of him that scoffed at the praise that droned around him, because he could have prevented any damage at all if he’d intervened immediately. His heroics were so impressive because he'd specifically waited until it would be heroic for him to intervene: hardly the actions of a true hero. The stupidity of those around him did not surprise him.

What did surprise him was that a different part of him wished he’d saved the boy from the start, the advantage of waiting be damned.

But no, Potter’s injury worked too much in his favor; it made him a hero. This was good. He forcefully disregarded any lingering regrets; if the boy was blinded, it hardly mattered to him aside from the loss of a potentially useful follower.

Besides, the past could not be changed. He could not have known the burning would soon be exacerbated by the Conjunctivitis curse. So he moved forward. He bowed his head, feigned humility and worry, and insisted that Harry was the hero; the curse had been meant for Tom, and that he’d jumped in front.

In the privacy of his own mind, though, Tom thought Potter more of an idiot than a hero, because it would have been infinitely easier to treat the two spells if they’d been cast on separate people. In one, they resulted in something much more severe.

Tom’s delayed intervention was to blame for the injury, but the potion had manipulated the situation just as efficiently. Potter’s ‘protective’ actions no doubt stemmed from the Mollis Caritate.

In other words, Tom had complete control over the situation, and every aspect could be turned to his advantage. 

So he found himself frustrated that some part of him didn’t feel satisfied with this, with Madam Jones' declaration that she could do nothing for the boy. She carted Potter off to St. Mungo’s, Tom in tow. 

They spent the entire afternoon in the hospital, and then well into the night. None of them slept, Potter in too much pain and the rest of them too busy. Well, Slughorn dozed off in one of the hospital chairs, but Dippet fire-called the parents of the four Gryffindors and worked on legal technicalities, contacting the School Board, of which MacDougal’s father just happened to be a part. That would not bode well for the family’s standing, Tom thought with concealed and remorseless delight; he’d never been fond of the imbecile. 

Potter would lose his eyesight if they didn’t perform a very risky, very expensive procedure, on both eyes. The Conjunctivitis Curse had interacted poorly with the burns, and while Potter would only lose eyesight in one eye if healed superficially, the other would be permanently blurred. 

Potter only clutched at Tom’s hand harder when he heard, but didn’t respond otherwise, obviously in no condition to make any proper decisions. 

Dumbledore, having been left to supervise the Healers, gave them the go-ahead. Tom watched impassively; Potter would be in debt for the rest of his life, unless the House of Potter willingly bailed out an illegitimate son, which Tom doubted, given that he’d never heard Harry mention the family, nor had he heard of the boy before his arrival at Hogwarts. 

This, too, he could use to his advantage. Cygnus Black owed him several favors; Tom could pay off Potter’s surgery, and once again he’d have physical evidence of his supposed goodwill. Potter would be in his debt; Tom could even insist on receiving no ‘repayment’, since his ‘generosity’ would likely make the boy feel even more indebted.

Tom sat straight-backed in the uncomfortable chair by the hospital bed, ignoring his aching hand, bruised from where Potter gripped it. The boy laid unconscious while Healers moved quickly and efficiently around him, preparing for the operation. 

Dippet fretted, Slughorn napped, Dumbledore observed.

Tom plotted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in **FASTER CHAPTERS**? There's an app you can use at [**this link**](https://inkitt.app.link/ff_crystia):
> 
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